God Hates You
by WitchGirl
Summary: When Greg’s friend comes to town, tragedy strikes. Sara tries her best to keep Greg stoic after an awful hate crime tears an old friendship apart. Sandle. Heavy themes.
1. God's Pride

God Hates You

**Summary:** When Greg's friend comes to town, tragedy strikes. Sara tries her best to keep Greg stoic after an awful hate crime tears an old friendship apart. Sandle.

**Author's Note:** This is what distracted me from _Las Plagas_ but I promise I'll finish both. This is a short one for me, as it was originally intended to be a one-shot. So enjoy. (There's a dedication, but I'll list it at the end). Please note that there are some political themes and controversial issues addressed in this story. Thank you.

* * *

On the day Adam Webster called to tell Greg that he was coming to Las Vegas, Sara thought that she had never seen Greg look so excited. And to her great surprise she found herself to be a little jealous. The day had been going so slowly and she had been trying to make him laugh all day, but he was so frustrated with work it was no use. He had looked so bored, until his cell phone rang, and his face lit up, succeeding where Sara had failed. Afterwards, he had leapt up and ran right past Sara to beg Grissom for the whole next week off, which surprised his boss, considering it was such short notice, and so the request was denied. He was, however, granted Wednesday and Thursday off. Adam arrived on Tuesday. 

So that Tuesday, Sara found herself once again fighting for Greg's attention as he daydreamed about his friend's visit.

"... spatter patterns indicated that he was shot at close range, so _I_ was thinking maybe..." She trailed off as she saw Greg's eyes were on the ceiling and he was muttering to himself. "... Mutated zebras with opposable thumbs escaped from his zoo and killed him in retaliation for locking them up and doing experiments on them all these years. What do you think?"

He blinked. "Yeah, that sounds good," he said.

She rolled her eyes and put the file down. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Zebras," he said, then frowned, blinked again, and looked at her. "I mean... Wait, _zebras_?"

"Were you even listening to me at all?" Sara asked.

"What were you talking about zebras for?" Greg returned.

"You're daydreaming again, aren't you?" Sara demanded. "Can you focus at all?!"

Greg flashed her his trademarked grin. "Sara, I don't think you understand. Me and Adam go way back. Like _dinosaurs_ way back. And I haven't seen him in fifteen years! I mean, we e-mail from time to time, but I haven't actually _seen_ him since... a long ass time, OK? I think I have a right to be excited."

"Damn right you do!" came a voice from the door.

Greg pushed his chair back so fast he knocked it over. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the door. Sara allowed herself a quiet chuckle.

"Adam!"

The newcomer seized Greg's hand and pulled him into a bear hug. "Greg, man, good to see you!" He pulled away to look at Greg. "Your hair! It's so... _normal_!"

"And yours is as crazy as ever," Greg noted, grinning at the jet black curls that hung over his eyes and ears in a very unruly fashion, with random blue streaks. "Aw, damn, it's good to see you! How's Jeff?"

"Doing swell at UNLV," Adam replied. "It's why I'm here, actually, promised the little guy I'd come to his graduation, help him move out of his apartment, you know." He looked over Greg's shoulder at Sara, who gave him a begrudging lopsided smile. "It's the brotherly thing to do after all. How do you do, ma'am?" He tilted his head and winked at her. She scoffed.

"Fine," she said. "And yourself, cowboy?"

"Cramped airplane," was his reply as he stretched out, unsubtly showing off the muscles in his arm. Sara rolled her eyes. "I'm Adam. I don't know if Greg's mentioned anything—"

"Believe me, he's mentioned plenty," Sara said flatly.

"Then you already know how awesome I am!" Adam threw his arm around Greg's shoulders and gave him a squeeze. Adam waited a moment, but no one spoke, Greg looking from Adam to Sara with a dopy grin on his face. So Adam prompted her. "And you are..."

She rose to her feet and gathered up the file. "Leaving," she said.

"She your girl, Greg?" Adam asked. "The one you been talking about?"

Sara stopped gathering up her files and looked up at Greg with a cocked eyebrow. Greg looked awkward as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Nah, you're thinking of..." He looked at Sara. "Some... other girl..."

There was a tense silence as Greg's gaze lingered on her. Sara shook it off and went back to gathering her files. "Right. Well, I have a big case I'm working on. And if I recall, Greg, you don't get off until four tomorrow."

"Ruin my fun, why don't you?" Greg exclaimed as Sara walked past him.

But she winked at him. "I've got this under control," she told him. "Go have fun with your friend."

"Hey, yeah!" Adam exclaimed. "I'm meeting Jeff at ten at this bar, you wanna roll with us, G-man?"

But Greg was watching Sara with polite, if feigned, reluctance. "Nah, Sara, I couldn't leave you all on your own to go over those files, not without—"

"I'll make Nick help me," she interrupted, telling him what he wanted to hear. "I think he just got off a case recently anyway..."

But he and Adam were already half-way down the hall. "Thanks, Sara, you're the best!" Greg exclaimed over his shoulder, before he disappeared out the door.

* * *

If Greg had to guess, he'd say that Jeff didn't look too thrilled to see that he had tagged along. While his face had lit up at the sight of his brother, it had immediately dimmed upon recognizing the man his brother had brought with him. The kid was much different than Greg remembered, now that he was all grown up. He had a much lighter frame than Adam, and was almost on the verge of being scrawny, but his brown eyes were fierce and his dark hair, just like his brother's, fell in a mop over his eyes. 

"Little brother!" Adam declared in his loud, exuberant manner as he pulled the younger Webster into an eager embrace. "I've been looking forward to coming out here ever since you moved into your freshman dorm! So, how do you feel? Graduation is in two days! Are you psyched? I know I am. My little brother, the college graduate!" He seized Jeff in a headlock and gave him a noogie. The younger brother didn't seem to appreciate it very much.

"Yeah, I'm real stoked," he said breathlessly, when Adam had released him. "And I've got my tickets to Lima with my girl, Lisa."

"Right!" Adam exclaimed, as if he'd forgotten. "You're gonna climb the Andes with Sherpas and llamas that spit and everything!"

"Sherpas are Nepalese, Adam," Jeff corrected with a loving smile.

"Ain't that where you're goin?" Adam asked. "Ah, it doesn't matter! Lemme buy you a beer. Your girl, Lisa, you say? Mom'll be thrilled. You've never brought home a girlfriend, and she's been nagging me about grandkids... She's worried she'll never get any!"

They sat down at the bar, and Greg, beginning to feel like a third wheel, hailed the bartender and ordered a round for the three of them as Adam, absorbed in his brother, kept pestering Jeff with questions.

The younger Webster shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that, Adam." He cast a fleeting glance at Greg, then looked nervously at Adam. "Adam, can we talk? No offense, Greg," he added hastily.

And that was when Greg knew, without a doubt, that he definitely _was_ a third wheel. "Hey," he said, getting to his feet and taking his beer. "I understand."

"Wait, Greg!" Adam cried. His eyes were wide with anticipation as he watched Jeff. "Don't tell me. You already proposed to her, haven't you?"

"No," Jeff said with a sigh as he stared at his beer. "I just... can I talk to you alone, please?"

"Come on, Greg's known you since you were in diapers, he can handle it," Adam said.

Greg recognized Adam's common disregard for privacy or boundaries. Modesty and humility was just something he didn't understand, being so open and loud as he was about everything. With Adam, there was no such thing as a secret.

So Greg intervened. "Adam, it's cool, I'll just scope out the room, see if I can find some ladies—"

"Does Mom know?" Adam demanded of Jeff. "She'll flip a lid."

"Yeah, Mom knows," Jeff said, exasperated as he rolled his eyes. "So does Dad. You're the only one who doesn't."

"I know now," Adam said with a dopey grin.

"No, you don't," Jeff said sternly, turning to glare at his brother. "Lisa's not my girlfriend." He interrupted Adam before he could say anything. "_Or_ my fiancé. Or my wife. She's just... a really good friend. And what I want to tell you has nothing to do with her. So can I just..._do_ it please, Adam?"

Adam's face fell and Greg knew that was definitely his cue to leave. Unnoticed by either of the Webster brothers, he slipped away towards the other end of the bar and sat down next to a bubbly blonde.

"Hey stranger," she said, and with those words, he was thoroughly distracted for the next ten minutes.

What he talked about with her, in the greater scheme of things, didn't really matter because after the next morning, Greg would have forgotten her entirely. Her name, her anecdotes, even her face would be lost to him. But what he would always remember was the screeching and jolting crash of splintering glass that made him whip his head in the direction of the two brothers.

Adam was on his feet now, and Jeff was covered in spilt beer from his brother's drink. He had fixed Jeff with a searing gaze which his brother was desperately trying to escape. "Adam, I didn't mean it that way..."

"What way could you have meant it, huh, Jeff?" Adam roared, his voice filling the bar. Greg winced, embarrassed in empathy for Jeff. Adam was loud in general, but when he was angry...

"No, Adam, I just didn't think you would understand—"

"Wouldn't understand?" Adam scoffed. "I wouldn't understand. Your brother, your own flesh and blood, you think I would have abandoned you? Let you go it alone? All those years and you never _told_ me? But you told mom and dad. Oh wow, I really feel like a part of this family."

"Adam, don't do this," Jeff pleaded. "It wasn't supposed to go this way... You know how you are with things like these. I just wanted to tell you when..." He squrimed. "Well, when you couldn't embarrass me about it."

Adam was shaking his head, looking utterly bewildered. And then, he looked around the bar and a slow, vindictive smile curled across his face. Greg braced himself. He knew what was coming. "Ladies and gentleman!" he declared like the ringmaster of a circus. "My baby brother is afraid I'll _embarrass_ him! Like I think—or maybe, _he_ thinks—that being _gay _is something to be embarrassed _about_!"

"ADAM!" Jeff yelled, grabbing his brother's arm.

But Adam ripped his arm out of Jeff's grip. "Don't touch me," he said, his voice a low growl. "This is Vegas. What do _they_ care?" He rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. "Look, I, uh... I need some air..." He turned to leave.

"You coming back?" Jeff called.

Adam hesitated before his shoulders slumped. "Maybe I'll call you tomorrow," he said. "But if I don't, don't call me. I'll try and make it to your grad. But get someone else to help you move out."

And with that, he was gone. Jeff furiously ripped off his beer-stained jacket and banged his head on the bar. Now that the spectacle was over, everyone slowly went back to what they were doing. But Greg's eyes lingered on the younger Webster. It seemed that both brothers had forgotten he was even there. Sighing, Greg excused himself to the blonde and took the chair next to Jeff.

"I'm sorry," Greg said.

"You didn't do anything," Jeff mumbled, not bothering to lift his head from the bar.

"For Adam. I always feel I have to apologize for him. He just... he doesn't understand people who have secrets. He has no shame himself. Which sucks, because he really should."

"Right," Jeff snorted. "He's such an arrogant asshole. He always finds a way to make _everything_ about him." He sat up and looked at Greg. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I love my brother. I always have, he's..." Jeff smiled. "I mean, he has his flaws, but I always wished I had half his confidence. But this is _exactly_ why I didn't tell him before. Mom and Dad, I mean, Mom, she's always been cool about this thing, and Dad warmed to the idea eventually, but they both understood that I didn't want it to be a big deal. And _they_ didn't exactly want to brag about it to all their friends. Adam, on the other hand... It's not like I was scared he'd be ashamed of me. I was scared he'd be almost _proud_ of me. He's _always_ proud of me. As if even my failures are something to brag about, to make him look better. You know? Like, I can see him even now, picking up some girl!" He put on a great "Adam" voice. "'Hey, baby, you know, my brother's gay, yeah, he overcame adversity, he's going against the current, but I'm not gay, you know, I'm cool, I taught him how to be strong.'" Jeff rolled his eyes and banged his head on the table again.

Greg frowned. "Well... it's nothing to be ashamed of, either. You know that right?"

Jeff turned his head on the bar and blinked at Greg. "I'm not ashamed," he told him. "But I know that some people have different opinions on the matter. It's about not making them uncomfortable. It's not something to be ashamed of, but it's not something to brag about. It's just who I am. I mean, you don't brag about the fact that you have brown eyes, do you? It's just... a fact. That's it. It doesn't dictate who I am or anything. I don't know why everyone has to make such a big deal about it."

"If you ask me, you're the one making a big deal about it," Greg told him. "Waiting all this time to tell your brother, I mean... If you'd have just told him in the first place and asked him just to not—"

"Greg, you've been friends with my brother since kindergarten, right?" Jeff asked. "You out of everyone should know that even when you ask him to, he can't keep a secret. He wears his heart on his sleeve, and sometimes that's a great thing, but..." Jeff leaned back in his chair. "I wish he didn't have to yell at me about it."

Greg smiled. "You're right," he said. "I do know Adam better than a lot of people. So I also know he doesn't hold grudges. He'll sleep on it, and he'll call you tomorrow all chipper and upbeat and demand to take you out somewhere."

Jeff smiled fondly. "Yeah, maybe. I think you're right."

Greg took off his jacket and draped it over Jeff's shoulders, picking up his forgotten beer-stained one on the ground. "Borrow this for a while, I'll get it back from you later."

Jeff nodded and put his arms in the jacket. "Thanks again, Greg."

Greg patted Jeff on the back and gave him a reassuring nod. "He's your brother, Jeff. He loves you. I think, if you ask him too, he'll be cool about it. He'd do anything for you."

Jeff didn't say anything, but he shrugged sheepishly and drained the last of his beer. "You're not a bad guy, Greg," Jeff told him. "Shame I wasn't born earlier. Could have gotten to know you better."

"Seriously!" Greg laughed. "Last I saw you, you were a bratty little ten-year-old. And now look at you. All grown up and dating men."

"Stop it," Jeff said as he punched Greg in the arm, but he was smiling.

Greg looked at his watch, then up at Jeff again. "Well, kiddo, if we're good to go here, I kind of abandoned my colleague at work, I'd like to get back to her. Do you need a ride home?"

"Nah, I've been here before," Jeff said dismissively. "And I only had one drink. I mean, it's not like we've been here long, right? I'll hang out for a little bit and catch a cab home."

Greg rose to his feet and winked at Jeff. "Don't stay out too late," he said. "If I know Adam, he'll be calling you up bright and early to take you out to breakfast, and you don't want to be hung over."

Jeff's eyebrows raised as he gave Greg a hopeful look. "You really think he'll get over it that quickly? He's never been this pissed at me before."

Greg chuckled. "Let me put it this way. Sophomore year of college, he leant me his car and I totaled it. Of course he blew up at me, so I apologized, offered to pay, and avoided him the whole day. That night he called me up, asked if I wanted to go see Twelve Monkeys as if it never happened." He put a hand reassuringly on Jeff's shoulder. "And he cares about you way more than me."

Jeff's face turned somber and he pursed his lips and nodded. "I don't think that's true."

Greg, confused, sat down in the stool again. "Why not?"

"He was always closer to you," Jeff said. "You guys always talked about stuff."

"Jeff, you're ten years younger than him," Greg explained. "When it came to general teenage guy stuff, of course he talked to me. But you said it yourself. He likes to brag about you. He told me when you made the baseball team, when you went on your first camping trip, when you flunked your first test. He was worried about you starting junior high while he was away, how he couldn't be there to show you the ropes, blah blah blah."

Jeff rolled his eyes. "OK, you've made your point. Didn't you have somewhere to be?"

Greg leapt off the barstool and nodded. "Yeah, that's right. See you later, Jeff."

"Later," Jeff called after him as Greg reached the door to the bar.

Greg made his way to his car which was in the corner of the dark parking lot and wondered fleetingly if Adam got back to his hotel alright. He decided to call him later and make sure he found a way home. He fumbled in his pocket for his keys until his fingers finally found them and he pulled them out.

He hesitated before fitting the key in the lock. It was eerily quiet for Las Vegas and a warm June wind danced across the back of his neck, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. He looked left and noticed a group of three or so guys watching him intently. He remembered seeing them in the bar only a few moments ago. Had they followed him outside?

His heartbeat quickened. _Not again_, he thought.

He forced himself to look back at his car and fit the key hastily in the lock. If he didn't provoke them, if he didn't say anything to them, maybe they would just let him go. But the parking lot was empty. And if he was their target, now was their chance. They probably were after his wallet or, hell, maybe they were waiting for him to unlock the car so they could steal that. Greg didn't really care _why_ they were observing him. His hands shook as he quickly swung the door open and leapt into the front seat of the car, slamming the door shut.

Safely surrounded by metal and glass, he relaxed for a moment and leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes.

He was startled by the shattering of glass. He ducked to avoid the scattered shards raining down on him but someone grabbed him by the back of his collar and yanked him painfully backwards, knocking his spine against the door as he was pulled out of the window, kicking and flailing, desperately fighting it, thinking, _Oh my god, they're going to kill me, I'm going to die_.

Greg gave a start and his eyes snapped open as he stared at the windshield which was painted black with the night. He closed his eyes and fought to control his breathing. He hadn't thought about that in months. He couldn't believe these assholes made him freak out badly enough to have such a vivid flashback. He looked in his rearview mirror and saw that the three of them had gone back to talking amongst themselves, smoking their cigarettes and laughing in low, gruff tones. Greg breathed a sigh of relief and chastised himself for being so ridiculous. Those guys weren't _staring_ at him. They'd probably just glanced at him when they came out for a smoke and Greg had overreacted. Even now, they had turned around and headed back into the bar, with goofy, drunken grins on their faces.

Finally calm and ashamed of himself, Greg sighed as he turned the key in the ignition and drove off to the lab to meet Sara.


	2. God's Wrath

**_Author's Note:_** This is only going to be about four or five chapters, and I'm just finishing it up so yay for me. And then it's back to _Las Plagas_, promise. By the way, I can't be the only one annoyed at Greg's lack of screen time this season, not to mention I've really been feeling Sara's absence and I didn't think I would. Season Eight doesn't make me as happy as I hoped it would. And just when I was beginning to like Ronnie, she hasn't been on lately either. But I do like the Hodges/Wendy flirting. Yay. OK, rant over. Read now.

Oh, wait-- for those of you wondering at the relevance of the title, I think this chapter might explain that. And yes, before you mention it, there are vivid similarities to an infamous, real-life case from Wyoming. This will all be addressed at the end of the story.

* * *

He knocked on the door and she greeted him with a smile. "Hey you," she said. "I thought you were out with your college buddy." 

"Yeah, there was an argument and he went home early," Greg said with a shrug.

Sara looked concerned. "What'd you guys fight about?"

Greg laughed, realizing he hadn't clarified. "No, I mean between Adam and his brother. It's a long story. Anyway, how are you with that case? Did you catch the zebras yet?"

She pursed her lips to hold back a laugh. "I've been working on it, yeah. You didn't have to come back in and check on me, I told you I had it covered."

He shrugged shyly and sat down next to her, moving some of the crime scene photos so he could see them better. "Well, Adam was gone, and Jeff and I aren't super close, plus I sort of left you hanging here..." He brushed the back of her hand reaching for another photo and while his heart fluttered, he pretended he hadn't even noticed how soft her skin was in that brief half a second.

She looked up at him. "But you've been looking forward to this for weeks. I would have thought that even if Adam left, you'd have bolted after him to try and cheer him up. Isn't that your style?"

He looked up at her and smiled, a tinge of red highlighting his cheekbones. He was glad that she had that impression about him. "Well, I used my awesome super powers to cheer up his brother instead, who by the looks of things needed it much more than Adam."

"What'd those two fight about?"

"It's a long—"

"I've got time," Sara cut him off before he could repeat himself.

"No, you don't," Greg said, pointing at the photographs. "In case you've forgotten, Sara Sidle, a man is dead, and his murderer is still out there somewhere until we catch him. It's what we do, remember?"

"Oh please," Sara whispered slyly, tilting her head down and looking up at him as she leaned in closer. "Where are a couple of mutated zebras going to go, anyway?" He could smell her hair from this distance. Lemons, with the tiniest undercurrent of the bad decomp she'd helped Grissom with two days ago. It only made the lemons smell sweeter.

His eyes moved up to meet her mischievous gaze and he stopped for a moment. He opened his mouth to answer her but to his humiliation found himself breathless. She didn't seem to notice as she raised her eyebrows in expectation. But whether she was expecting him to tell her what happened at the bar or something else entirely, Greg wasn't sure.

He covered up his loss for words with a cough, which made her recoil and his stomach twisted with regret of chasing her away, once again. "Um... Jeff told Adam he was gay, and Adam was upset Jeff hadn't told him sooner and stormed out."

"There," Sara said with a half shrug. "That wasn't such a long story after all."

He knew she was right, but what he didn't know was why he had been averse to telling her in the first place. Maybe it was something Jeff had said about how Adam broadcasted everything. And then he realized that Sara was completely unfazed by this explanation, and was ready to move on. The thought, for some reason, made him smile.

"What are you smirking about?" Sara asked, turning back to the photographs.

Greg shrugged and meant to say 'nothing,' but instead said, "Just being here. With you."

She stopped and gave him a curious look before the tiniest smile pulled at her lips and she turned away from him again, spreading out the photographs. She pointed at one of them. "So I wanted to know what you thought about this impression here, on the sheets by her thigh..."

And that was it. All personal banter was done after that, and Greg wondered if he had said something wrong because she was strictly business for the rest of the night. Greg was beginning to miss her previously incessant stupid jokes. He wanted her to cock her head to the side and smirk slyly at him again. He wanted to smell her hair again, bad decomp and all. He wanted so much more from her than what she was giving him.

After a few hours of mapping spatter patterns and maneuvering the strange imprint on the computer until they realized it was half a footprint, Greg decided he was tired of just wanting.

She was standing up in front of the computer and leaning on the table as she clicked her way through the SoleMate database looking for a match. He came up behind her and put one hand on the table by her mouse and the other rested on the small of her back. She didn't seem to notice. Feeling like a teenage guy on a date in a movie theater trying a classically cliché move, his hand slowly moved up her back and rested on her shoulder as he leaned his head closer to hers with the excuse of trying to see the screen better.

"We got it!" she exclaimed, straightening up and breaking their contact. Inwardly, Greg sighed. Chalk up another loss for him on the scoreboard. But he wasn't too sure who won that round.

Still, she was grinning. And he liked it when she grinned. She opened her mouth and was about to explain her eureka moment when Grissom's voice interrupted them.

"Sara, Greg, you busy?" he asked.

"We just got a break in a case, I think," Greg said.

"Great," Grissom said. "Listen, Catherine and Nick are at the flamingo working a scene and Warrick's knee deep in an experiment with hot wax and we just got another case in. Can you handle it?"

"Well it's almost end of shift..." Greg began.

"Sure," Sara chirped. "Where's it at?"

Grissom handed her a file. "Off I-15, on the outskirts of town," he said. Both of them seemed to be ignoring Greg. "Brass is already there, he'll brief you when you arrive."

* * *

Sara was the one to drive to the scene and Greg realized that he had forgotten to call Adam. He looked at his watch. It had just turned five. Adam probably wouldn't be awake yet, so there was no point in calling him now. As they left the city limits, the stars became clearer and Greg watched them out the window. Living in the city, Greg rarely saw the stars as clearly as this, and he liked to think he wasn't one to take things for granted.

His thoughts drifted to Sara, as did his gaze as he watched her guide the car down the highway. She was relaxed in her chair, one hand lazily resting on top of the wheel as they shot straight ahead. She had a faint smile to her lips. She was always smiling recently, and he wasn't too sure why.

"Has something happened to you?" he asked curiously.

She glanced at him, looking bemused. "Why, do I look different?"

"Yeah," he answered, honestly. "You look happier."

She laughed, seeming oddly uncomfortable all of a sudden. "That's a strange observation to make," she said casually. She flashed him a half-smile. "You keep track of my moods often, Sanders?"

It was Greg's turn to be uncomfortable. "Hey look!" he said, pointing straight ahead. "Cop cars!"

They pulled up to the scene and got out of the car. Brass saw them immediately and headed over to tell them what was going down. He seemed unusually grim, his eyes heavy, but Greg assumed he was just tired.

"Young white male, early twenties by the looks of it."

"No ID?" Sara asked.

"No, there's ID," Brass replied. "We just can't read it."

"Why not?" Greg asked the obvious.

"It's been cut up," Brass said. "Some of the pieces have been blown away. We're missing his name and DOB, but we have his photo and we know he's an organ donor."

They saw David Phillips making his way over and Sara waved. He nodded at each of them in hello. "I can't determine precise COD here," he explained. "But my money's on blunt force trauma to the head. Several hits were landed there, as well as everywhere else." He looked at Greg. "It's not pretty."

Sara too, turned to Greg and waited for him to say something, as if there was anything for him to say. Normally it would have taken Greg a moment to understand why they were all staring at him, but the flashback that had occurred earlier was still fresh in his mind. Still, he shrugged it off. "So what are we waiting around here for? Let's process."

He moved to walk past David and Brass when Brass caught his shoulder. "This was a hate crime," he said simply to Greg.

"How can you tell that from a preliminary sweep?" Sara asked.

Brass opened his mouth to reply then seemed to think better of it. He nodded at the scene. "See for yourself," he replied.

Sara and Greg exchanged looks then made their way over to the body, which was lying flat on his stomach, his limbs jutting out at odd angles. The body itself was the first thing that struck Greg and he felt something cold slither around his heart and constrict.

There was something silently tragic about this distorted corpse, laying there mangled in the desert dust. There was a soft breeze which tousled his lifeless black hair. Bruises and open wounds lined his bare back and his jeans were torn at odd places. Greg kneeled down next to the corpse, wondering if he had looked anything like that when Sara had arrived at the scene of his attack.

It was the strangest thing to worry about, but when Greg thought back on that moment he had shared with Sara, all he could think about was how shitty he'd probably looked.

Her distraught gasp caught his attention and Greg looked at her to see what had caused a previously Happy Sara make such a Sad Sara Sound.

He didn't have to look far.

Trapped under the corpse's stomach was the sleeve of a light-weight black zip up jacket. It was sprawled out beside him on the desert sand, the fabric occasionally caught by the wind, threatening to tear loose from the corpse that anchored it. Of course, Greg recognized it immediately as the jacket he had leant Jeff, and the icy thing that was crushing his heart suddenly gave one final squeeze and stopped it all together.

He had the most distracting pain in his chest, like he had swallowed a piece of hard candy that was too big for his throat and it had gotten stuck there. Even in the warm air of a June morning, Greg felt the goosebumps rise on his skin as the denial slowly set in. No. It can't be him. He had to have been robbed. It can't be him.

Yes, Greg recognized the jacket. But what he didn't recognize was the blood red liquid that stained it, although it wasn't blood itself. Along the back of the jacket, some punk had spray-painted the words "GOD HATES FAGS" as if they had any meaning at all.

"We can't assume this was a hate crime," Sara said slowly, calmly, sounding much more composed than Greg was feeling. "It could just be disguised as one to throw us off the scent. I mean, what asshole actually _tells_ us the reason they killed their victim?"

"A boastful one..." Greg muttered. "This guy actually thinks he did the world a favor."

She was frowning. "Greg, are you OK?" she asked him, but her words wove in and out of his hearing as the blood poured like twin waterfalls into his ears.

"No, I'm not," and he was surprised to hear his voice crack. He rose to his feet again and his head spun. He looked back at the corpse. It had been tragic enough when it was a stranger, but now... "Turn him over," he whispered.

"Greg...?" Her voice was filled with the questions she was too afraid to ask.

"I want to see his face," Greg explained.

She nodded slowly, then lifted the body and carefully turned it onto his back. But his face was so swollen and bruised, Greg hardly recognized it.

But still, he recognized it.

"Oh God..." He wouldn't take his eyes away from the bloody mess that was the face of the dead almost-college-graduate.

"Do you know him?!" Sara asked, her voice unusually shrill.

Slowly, he nodded. "His name is Jeffery Webster."

Realization slowly dawned on Sara. "Adam's brother," she said.

Greg swallowed. "How long ago... I mean... did David give TOD?"

Sara shrugged. "I can ask—"

"Don't," Greg said. "I'll be in the car. Do you mind...?"

"No," Sara said softly, her voice full of understanding. She meant it. "Not at all. Go back to the car. I'll finish up here."

The walk back to the car was a long one, and Greg felt a little bit like a ghost as he dragged his feet in the desert sand. He was vaguely aware of Brass in his peripheral vision calling out to him, asking him something, but he wasn't sure what. That hard candy was still lodged in his chest and he needed to find someway of expelling it.

When he finally reached the car, he sat down in the driver's seat and turned the radio on. He found a station that played hard rock and cranked up the volume. He turned his face towards the headrest and smelled the lingering scent of lemons. He wrapped his arms around himself as if he were cold. The thing in his chest seemed to be growing. It was making it harder for him to breathe now.

He had seen the boy simply hours ago. He thought Jeff had known what he was doing.

And Adam. Oh God, Adam.

He couldn't do it now, and yet Greg knew he had to. But he reasoned that it wasn't the sort of news one delivered over the phone, and besides, Adam was sleeping now anyway. He would stop by his hotel room later, when he could breathe again.

Greg knew it was only an excuse not to talk to his friend, but it was a very valid one, and even if it wasn't he was in no mood to question his procrastination.

For a moment, he wondered why he was so upset, and if he was overreacting. He hadn't known Jeff that well at all. He was just Adam's younger brother, and he always had been. He had only consoled Jeff in the bar because he felt sorry for the kid, not out of any loyalty to him as a friend. He had never seen Jeff as an individual. Whenever he'd thought of him, it was always in conjunction with Adam. And this thought made him feel even worse.

By the time Sara arrived back at the car, the sun was hovering just over the horizon, a blazing orange fireball in the pink and navy sky. Sara opened the trunk first and unloaded her kit. She didn't say so much as a hello to Greg in the front seat. She walked to the passenger side of the car, opened the door and sat down without a word. Greg stared straight ahead out the windshield, but he felt her eyes on him like twin needles in the side of his neck. He wanted to be sedated. Like the Ramones. He wanted to go to sleep. He... wasn't too sure what he wanted anymore. A few hours ago, he had been making careful plans of how he would finally seduce Sara after seven and a half years of simply imagining it in his mind. But now, he didn't even want to look at her, or talk to her.

And then he realized what he wanted. It was like a fire in his gut that was scorching his heart. _God hates fags_.

His throat constricted and he swallowed to open it up again as he gritted his teeth in fury, his hands clenching into fists. He looked down at his lap to try and control himself, lest he explode at Sara, who didn't deserve all the ill will he felt towards her at that moment.

They needed to die.

Greg had never wished anyone dead before, not even the people who had attacked him last year. In fact, he had wished so often that Demetrius James was still alive that occasionally he actually believed he _hadn't_ run over and killed a man. He didn't like death, though he dealt with it on a daily basis. He _hated_ the idea of someone taking another person's life. He had coached himself long ago not to consider himself a murderer, although the accusations from the Jameses made it hard to do. If he hadn't rationalized what had happened, if he hadn't reasoned that it was in self defense, that he hadn't meant to kill anyone, he might have destroyed himself. But now, the strangest feeling was beginning to stir his blood. For the first time in his life, he actually wished someone was dead, someone he didn't even know.

He took a deep, trembling breath and then exhaled, tilting his head back up and reaching up to grip the steering wheel. He said nothing to Sara, who was still watching him patiently and intently, and he reached for the key in the ignition and turned it.

"I want to drive," Sara said suddenly, breaking the sacred silence that had embraced them.

It made him angry and he struck the wheel with an open palm. "Sara, you drove us here, I'm driving back, dammit!"

She was obviously taken aback by his outburst. Greg could feel her shock without even looking at her. The silence returned, and Greg gripped the steering wheel, his foot hovering over the pedal, but the car didn't move.

"Greg..." Sara said tentatively, carefully. "You're obviously upset. I'm just worried that if you drive, something might... happen."

"What, Sara?" Greg whispered icily as he looked down at his knees. "Don't you trust me?"

"Greg, you know it's not about that," she protested.

"I won't crash, I promise," Greg said, closing his eyes to regain his composure. "I'm a good driver."

"I know," Sara said quickly. "I know, but... Please, just let me drive."

Greg didn't respond. He listened to the low rumble of the engine, which was the only think that broke the silence and bridged the gaping chasm between them. Hours ago, he would have given anything to get closer to Sara and now he couldn't get far enough away from her.

After a while, she spoke again. "Do you... want to talk about—"

"No," he said sharply and she fell silent again.

He heard her shift in her seat and for the first time looked over at her. Her palms were pressed together and flanked tightly by her knees as she stared down at her thumbs with pursed lips. Her shoulders were slumped and her eyes were dark. Her soft hair fell on either side of her face and, caught by the light of the rising sun through the windshield, had a light golden halo around the top of her scalp. She was holy and serene and his wrath melted away into guilt and remorse.

He preferred the anger.

He closed his eyes and covered them with one hand, the other one still gripping the steering wheel tightly. He took a deep breath and his eyes rolled up to the heavens in order to bite back the sting.

He sniffed. "I don't..." He didn't know how to say it. But he had caught her attention and she watched him with patient eyes, ready when he was. He sighed and looked down again, closing his eyes. "I can't really... explain..."

"That's alright," she said softly.

He opened his mouth again and his bottom lip trembled. He didn't want to do this in front of her. He wished she was gone, but she was there, and there was no where else for him to go but the middle of the desert. He closed his mouth and swallowed again. He opened his eyes and blinked at the sun rise. He pushed his shoulders back and put the car in gear. Sara didn't utter a word of protest.

Neither one of them said anything on the way back to the lab. But if Greg had been paying attention, he may have noticed that Sara wasn't smiling anymore.


	3. God's Guilt

**_Author's Note:_** I considered adding an anecdote about a grieving father from a play, but cut it because it didn't fit. Still, you all should go read _Our Lady of 121st Street_. Very good play. Hope you enjoy the end of this chapter. ;o)

* * *

Grissom stopped in to see how Sara was doing as she catalogued the evidence. 

"You going to call it a day soon?" he asked her.

She seemed to think about it for a moment, then went back to the evidence. "I want to solve this case," she said resolutely.

It was enough to catch his attention. He stepped into the room. "Well we want to solve all the cases, don't we?" She didn't reply, and continued to ignore him as she laid the evidence bags down on the table. Grissom noticed the worn looking jacket with the red hate words on it. "Is there something wrong, Sara?"

She nodded. "It's not with me though," she answered calmly.

Grissom looked around. "Where's Greg, I thought he was on this case with you?"

"I sent him home," she answered. "He wasn't in any condition to work."

He touched her shoulder, succeeding in making her stop. "Sara... what's going on?"

She looked up at him with screaming eyes, and her mouth opened to answer, but she hesitated. She closed her mouth and looked away from him again. "It's Greg," she said looking at the table. "The DB out in the desert you sent us to check on was a victim of a hate crime. Did you know that?"

Slowly, Grissom nodded. "I can see that," he said, eying the jacket. "Was Greg offended by the—"

She flipped her hair and looked at him, her face pale under the florescent lights. "He was the brother of Greg's best friend," she said simply. "Greg was probably one of the last people to see him alive."

Grissom nodded. "Alright, he's off the case," he said quietly.

She threw down an evidence bag and glared at him. "Is that all you care about?! That it's a conflict of interest?"

He had no idea where this outburst came from. "No, I realize this must be really hard for him, I would expect that—"

"You know, this is his jacket," Sara said, nodding at the evidence. "He was wearing it when he left earlier."

"I thought I recognized it," Grissom replied quietly.

"He didn't tell me anything, but I think he gave it to the vic for some reason. You should have seen him, Grissom, he was really shook up."

"Of course he was..." Grissom murmured.

"So I have to solve this case," Sara said, resolutely, refusing to look at him. "I have to solve this case so he can feel better."

"Sara," Grissom said, quietly but firmly. She gripped the edge of the table with both hands and straightened her arms, hanging her head low and taking deep breaths.

"You want me to go home, don't you?" she asked flatly.

"Get some rest. Come back in tomorrow. You can save Greg then."

She looked at him for a long time with unreadable eyes. Finally, she sighed and raked her hands through her hair. "What a stupid reason to kill someone, huh?"

* * *

Greg looked down at his shoes and the red and orange diamond pattern carpet beneath them. He waited impatiently for the eggshell colored door in front of him to open. His mouth was getting drier by the second. He began to chew on his lip. At first, he nibbled it lightly, but soon enough his lip was caught in a death grip between his jaws. 

He knocked again.

Finally the door opened, and a grumpy looking Adam answered in a towel, his hair all tousled and one eye half closed. "What, dammit, Greg, I was just about to get in the shower!"

"I need to talk to you," Greg said. "Can I come in?"

Adam gestured at the towel around his waist. "Busy. Come back in an hour."

"It's important," Greg insisted. "It's about Jeff."

"Aw, jeeze, did little brother send you over?" Adam smiled. He closed his eyes and shrugged. "Look, you can tell him I know I overreacted and I'm sorry. Ask him if he's free to go see that new Johnny Depp flick later, the one where he's that singing murderer?"

Greg took a deep breath. "Adam—"

"Aw, I get it," Adam nodded. "You can come too, I mean, you are half the reason I'm out here."

"No, I mean... Sure, I'll go see a movie with you later, but Adam, just listen to me—"

"I'll listen to you in an hour when I'm awake," Adam said, slowly closing the door. "Talk to you later—"

"Jeff is dead!" Greg blurted out.

Adam stopped and frowned at Greg as if he didn't understand. And then he started laughing. "Oh, OK, I get it, right, he's messing with me because of what happened last night. Lemme tell you though, man, that shit isn't funny."

"I know," Greg said, his voice graver than it had ever been. He was looking directly into Adam's dark eyes, trying to impress upon him the severity of the situation nonverbally, since words seemed to be a dud. Adam slowly stopped laughing when he realized Greg wasn't joining in.

"Dude, seriously, stop it," Adam said, warningly.

By now, Greg's mouth was as dry as the desert they had found Jeff's body in. "I was called out to the crime scene," he began.

"No, man, don't tell me this," Adam was shaking his head now. He tried to close the door again, but Greg pushed it back open with his hand.

"I saw his _body_, Adam!" he cried.

Adam stopped again and just stared at Greg as if he had gone mad. "No, man," Adam whispered. "No, man, get out of here."

"He was out in the desert—"

"I'm warning you man—"

"He was dragged out there—"

"Greg, don't do this—"

"And he was beaten to death—"

"_Shut the fuck up_!" Adam screamed at the top of his lungs and finally succeeded in halting Greg in his tracks. A nearby maid pushing her cart stopped and gave them a dirty look. Adam rubbed his eyes with his hands. "Look, Greg... I need to take a shower," he said. He pulled his hand down his face and smiled at him. "I think the matinee is at three. Better prices, and I'm kinda broke. I'll give you a call around two and we can check it out?"

Greg wasn't sure what to do. "Adam..." he began, but wasn't sure how to continue. He looked down at the ugly carpet again. "I think... we should talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about," Adam said hastily, shaking his head. "Nothing to talk about."

"Adam, your brother—"

"I'll call you at two o'clock," Adam said resolutely, before slamming the door in Greg's face.

The CSI exhaled the breath he didn't even know he was holding and rested his forehead against the door to Adam's hotel room.

* * *

Adam didn't call Greg at two o'clock, and Greg didn't wake up until three anyway. When he noticed the time he sighed and rolled onto his back as he stared at the ceiling. Adam generally bounced back from things fairly fast. But he'd never had to deal with anything like this. A crashed car was one thing, but a broken brother was something else entirely. 

He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Adam's cell phone number. Predictably, he reached his voice mail. At least now Adam couldn't cut him off. "Hey... listen, I know you probably don't want to talk to me right now. But it's important to me that you know a few things about what happened to your brother. I think you owe it to yourself. You owe it to him." He hesitated. "Jeff was taken out to the middle of the desert where he was killed. He was wearing my jacket. When we found him, he was on top of it and..." This was the hardest part. "Adam, Jeff was killed because he was gay. I just... thought you should know that. Hey, listen, if you bothered to listen to this whole message, I'm... I'm here for you, man. You know? I always am." He tried to think if there was anything left to say and came up empty. "Please call me." And with that, he hung up.

He looked at his phone and noticed he'd received a text message from Adam while he was on the phone.

_Hey G-man. In movie theater. Call you later_.

He heaved a frustrated sigh and raked his hands through his hair. He wanted badly to do something but had no idea what that it was. He knew that he couldn't work on the case, and Adam was avoiding him.

He looked at his clock again. Sara would be awake by now. He thought about it for a moment before he actually picked up the phone and dialed.

* * *

Sara and Greg sat silently side by side on the couch, and neither one wanted to be the first to speak. Sara had never felt so awkward with Greg before. In fact, he was the only one in the lab she ever felt completely comfortable with all the time. She didn't know what it was about him, but his goofy, upbeat disposition always had a calming effect on her. But now, he seemed dim, like a burnt-out light bulb or a broken pencil. Something was wrong, and he was the one who had called her, _he_ was the one who invited her over, and now he wasn't saying anything. 

Well, if he wasn't going to bring it up, she would. "How did Adam take it?"

"He didn't," Greg replied, staring at his coffee table with the tiniest frown on his brow.

"What do you mean?" And if he didn't reply, she'd demand he expound, or else she was leaving.

He shrugged noncommittally. "He just didn't take it at all. It's like... I gave it to him, and he threw it back in my face. He didn't want to touch it. He didn't want to hear it."

She nodded. "Well... everyone reacts to grief in different ways."

"He went to a _movie_," Greg said, spitefully. "I don't know what that is, but that's not grief. Dammit, he's _always_ like this. Not taking things seriously for longer than five minutes!" He leaned back on the couch and took a second to calm down. He turned his head to look at Sara. "So what do you guys know so far?"

Her eyebrows shot up, and so did the lump in her throat. "Um... I wasn't able to get too much done before Grissom sent me home, but... I was able to talk to Doc Robbins and we identified four different shoe prints on the body. David was right, he took one too many hits to the head and his brain was just too damaged so..." She stopped when she saw Greg flinch as he stared at his knees. She wished she knew what was going through his mind. "Um... there were several cigarette burns, especially on his face and his eyes... I'm going to analyze the fingernail scrapings first thing tonight, I promise. I think I might have gotten some epithelials. Greg, it looks like he fought back. And that's helped us a lot."

Greg was frowning. His next words were barely above a whisper. "Four attackers?" he asked.

She nodded. "Did you... notice anything unusual at the bar?"

Greg slowly nodded. "You know how I said Jeff and Adam had a fight? Well... Adam's loud generally, but... he may have said some things that riled a few people, maybe made Jeff a target."

"OK..." Sara said, slowly. "I'll let Brass know..."

"There's more," Greg said sternly. "When I was leaving, I noticed a couple of drunk guys having a smoke. I thought I was imagining it, but now I think they were watching me. And then they went back inside."

"Can you describe them?" Sara asked.

But Greg shook his head. "Nah, I was too—" He cut himself off and took a deep breath. He hung his head low and closed his eyes. "I shouldn't have left him alone there. I should have taken him home. God dammit, _why_ did I just _leave_ him there?"

Sara opened her mouth to console him when there was a knock at the door. And before she could do anything, he was on his feet and heading towards it. She watched his back as he opened it.

"Adam..." he said, clearly surprised to see his friend.

"I want to talk to you," Adam growled, his voice as ominous as thunder on the horizon.

Greg obligingly stepped back and Adam pushed open the door and strode purposefully past him and into the apartment.

"I wanna know about Jeff," he demanded, turning around to look at Greg.

Greg's eyes darted at Sara. "Um, here, Adam, let's go into the kitchen..."

"No," Sara said, rising to her feet. "I have a few errands to run before work, I'll just—"

"How the hell did he end up in the middle of that desert, Greg?" Adam asked, sounding desperate to know. "I mean, last I knew, I left him with you, right? I thought you were gonna take care of him! And you just let him be taken and beaten to death?"

Greg held up both his hands in a gesture of submission. "Look, Adam, it wasn't like that at all—"

"Well how was it like then, Greg?" Adam demanded. "You were the last one to see him, right? I mean besides the bastard that killed him. How was it like?"

Greg gaped a moment. "Yes," he said. "I left him at the bar, but it's not like he didn't know where he was or what was going on. I... I thought he'd be OK."

"Well obviously he wasn't," Adam spat.

Greg looked at Sara, then at Adam again. "Adam, please, let's go talk in the kitchen—"

"No!" Adam exclaimed, glancing at Sara briefly. "No, I want your girlfriend to hear this. I want her to see what a slimeball you really are."

"Adam, you have _no _respect for privacy—" Greg began through gritted teeth.

"Fuck you, Greg!" Adam yelled. "It was late. You should have taken him home. You left him there all by himself and then..."

"It's not Greg's fault this happened," Sara spoke up at last, drawing both men's attentions. "Look, if you want me here, than I have a right to speak, don't I?"

Adam's nostrils flared and he turned back to Greg. "I can't believe you left my little brother to die."

"Do you think I'd do that?!" Greg finally snapped. "Do you _really_ think I'd do that to Jeff? I know how much he meant to you!"

"Yeah!" Adam screamed back. "And maybe a part of you hated that."

Greg looked horrified. "What the hell are you talking about, Adam?"

"Oh come on," Adam said laughing. "You mean to tell me that growing up you weren't _once_ jealous of the way I talked about Jeff? How proud I was of him?"

"No!" Greg shrieked. "Adam, you don't get it—"

"Then explain it to me, Greg," Adam snarled. "Why did you leave him on his own in that bar?"

Greg was fuming by now. "_I_ wasn't the one that declared his sexuality to his killers!"

Adam was stunned into silence. "What did you just say?"

Greg's chest was rising and falling steadily as he caught his breath. "You told everyone in that bar that Jeff was gay," Greg said. "You signed his fucking _death_ certificate."

Adam didn't speak, he just stared at Greg in bafflement. Then, he closed his eyes and shook his head. "I have to go," he said, quickly making his way past Greg and out the door. He slammed it so loudly it made Sara flinch.

Greg took a deep breath then let it out as he closed his eyes and leaned against the door, slowly sliding to the ground. He drew both knees to his chest and rested his forearms on top of them before resting his forehead on them. Sara watched him for a moment, his back steadily rising and falling in a slow rhythm. And then, his back rose in short, sharp bursts and Sara strained her ears before she could hear him sobbing.

Her heart lurched and she immediately went to him, putting the palm on his back. He didn't push her away, like she half-suspected him to do. She slowly ran her fingers through his hair like she had done a year ago.

She slowly engulfed him in her embrace, resting her chin on his restless back. She closed her eyes and spoke in soothing tones. "It's not your fault, Greg. It's not your fault."

He moved, and she pulled away from him a bit as he turned to look at her. His face was wet and red and he took deep, shaking breaths. "It's not his fault either," he said. "And now, he thinks..."

"He was upset, Greg," she said. "You both were. Neither of you meant what you said."

"I killed my best friend's brother," Greg said with an ironic smile.

"Shut up," Sara snapped authoritatively. "You shut up! I don't want to hear you talk like that, Greg, what the hell did I just say?"

"You said it's not my fault," Greg whispered.

"Exactly. So shut up."

He nodded and leaned his head back against the door. "I hate it that you're seeing me like this."

The corner of her lips twisted and she pushed s tuft of hair back behind his ears. There was something about his hair that always fascinated her, no matter what color or style it was at the time. "We all have days like these," she told him.

"How come I've never seen you break down?" Greg asked.

She laughed. "I'd never let you."

He actually smiled and she felt a glimmer of triumph inside of her chest. She cupped his chin in her hand and shook her head. "Greg..." She wasn't sure how to say it. _You're too good for this_, she thought.

His smile slowly faded and he shifted. One hand moved to cover hers on his cheek, and the other rested on her shoulder. He tilted his head and slowly leaned towards her.

She wasn't exactly sure what was happening until she was in the middle of it, her eyes closed and his fingers tangled in her hair. And to her utter surprise, her heart was fluttering. She never realized before exactly how much she relished his touch.

He pulled his lips away from her and leaned his forehead against hers. "You're my world," he breathed.

She listened to his now steady breathing, the tears on his cheeks rapidly drawing, and she knew she needed him closer.

Her arms wrapped tightly around him and she rested her chin on his shoulder as she felt him return the embrace. "It'll be OK, Greg," she assured him. "We'll work this out."

"I damn well hope so," Greg replied, sounding exhausted. 


	4. God's Shame

**_Author's Note:_** I'm leaving on a jet plane tomorrow (don't know when I'll be back again ;o)). Going to DC. I'll be writing on the plane. So enjoy.

* * *

Sara walked confidently into the room where Brass was talking to a brown-haired man with a bit of a beer gut. His eyes kept darting to his lawyer, which Sara had learned to be one of many signs of guilt.

"Mr. Howard, this is CSI Sidle," Brass told the suspect. She took her seat next to the detective and quietly observed the discussion. "Now, tell me again exactly what you were doing on the night of June second... for the lady."

He glanced at Sara, then again at his lawyer, who nodded in approval. "So me and the boys were just having a couple-a-beers, that's all," he said, shrugging as if to emphasize that it was just a casual get-together, nothing special. "And we were just having a good time is all, kicking back after the day. It was Jake's birthday, so he had a round on the house. There was some commotion with a big guy and a littler guy. The big guy smashed a beer glass, spilling it all over the little guy and was all yelling at him, so he storms out. But what do we care, eh? That's none of our business, so after the scene is over, we went back to chatting and whatever. So I needed a smoke, so everyone but Jake went outside, 'cause see, Jake, he doesn't smoke. We were all a little drunk, but nothing crazy. We go back inside, pick up Jake, and we all go home to our loving wives and we went to sleep. I swear, that's it, alright?"

Brass cocked an eyebrow at Sara. "I don't think that's it. Do you think that's it, Sara?"

"Mm, I don't think that's it, Jim," Sara returned, her own eyebrows raised. She pushed a file across the table and opened it. "Do you recognize that jacket, Mr. Howard?"

"Nah, never seen it before," he said, again with another exaggerated shrug.

She slowly nodded. "What about the sentiment it expresses?" she asked. "Are you familiar with that?"

"Ms. Sidle, I don't really think it's necessary to ask my client that sort of question," said his lawyer.

"And exactly what sort of question _is_ it?" she asked him innocently.

"Look," Brass interrupted. "The fact of the matter is, we found spray cans in your trash, Mr. Howard. As well as a receipt for them dated June 2nd. Care to explain what you used them for?"

"This is purely circumstantial, you can't charge my client based on a spray can in his trash!" the lawyer exclaimed. "Any number of people could have bought spray paint that day!"

"Actually, we checked," Sara said. "Your client was the only one to purchase this specific brand of spray paint, which is actually only sold at this twenty-four-hour hardware store which happens to be right in the middle of the bar Jeff Webster was last seen at and the desert location where he was murdered. Not to mention the fact that he made the purchase only an hour before the time of death. Now, Mr. Howard, maybe you'd like to tell us why you would go shopping for red spray paint at midnight?"

"My son was building model race car for boy scouts," Howard returned bitterly. "We ran out of spray paint, and the thing was due the next day for the races. I couldn't leave my boy hanging."

"Your son was still working on his project at midnight?" Brass asked. "Wow, you need to teach that boy to stop procrastinating."

"If that was the case, Mr. Howard," Sara began, her voice growing icier with every syllable, "then why did we find desert soil caked on your shoes?" He opened his mouth to reply. "And speaking of shoes, let me tell you what _else_ we found on them. Blood. Jeffery's blood, in fact, on the soles. What's wrong with you, Mr. Howard, you cleaned the top of it but didn't think we'd check the bottom?"

"Now wait a minute, that doesn't mean anything!" Howard exclaimed. "I'm in the desert all the time, hell I take my son and his boy scout friends camping out there! And as for the blood, well I must have stepped in it when I was leaving! That big guy, he took a swing at the littler guy, and he had a bloody nose, and it dripped on the floor, that's all!"

"This wasn't in your original statement," Brass noted skeptically.

"Honest to God!" Howard cried.

"God," Sara spat, scornfully. "Funny you should say that word, 'God.' Do you think God is on your side, Mr. Howard?" She was beginning to lose her temper as her voice rose. "Do you really think that _God_ condones murder for _any_ reason at all? _Do you_?!"

"Sara," Brass said warningly, and she calmed down a little, leaning back in her chair.

"Look, if that's all the evidence you have, I think my client has explained it all for you," said his lawyer, rising to his feet.

"Oh don't be so presumptuous," Sara sneered. She turned a page in the file to reveal a photograph of a bruised shoeprint on Jeff's stomach. Right across his naval. "Guess whose shoes these prints match."

The lawyer blanched, and Howard, who was watching him, looked as if he might faint as well.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "The fag _deserved _it!" he burst out furiously. "Hell, he was fucking _bragging_ about it, you don't _brag_ about evil! He was going to Hell, and he was trying to convert others into his evil ways. Someone needed to put an end to it. Someone needed to stop him from bending over for Satan!"

There was silence a moment. He was breathing heavily, and his lawyer looked like he just realized he was fighting for a lost cause. Sara was gritting her teeth, her hands clenched into fists, and she was ready, _so ready_, to just launch herself at this self-righteously bigoted asshole.

Lucky for her, Brass had more restraint, and at that moment, a much sharper intellect.

"Yeah..." he said. "I think you and your buddies are gonna learn a lot about 'bending over for Satan' where you're going."

* * *

It was a sunny day, which Greg found bitterly ironic as the mood was anything but cheerful.

The moment he stepped out of the car, he was assaulted with white noise. He had long ago conditioned himself to ignore the shouts of reporters and mobs of people yelling at him, whether they were just asking questions about a case he couldn't talk about, or accusing him of cold-blooded murder.

But this was different. This, for some reason, was so much harder to ignore. And he probably couldn't have done it without Sara standing beside him and squeezing his hand to remind him that she was still there.

Jeffery Webster's death was big news in Las Vegas, and a highly controversial issue. And this baffled Greg. Of all the things, all the sins that went on in the heart of Las Vegas, why did these people all of a sudden feel the urge to protest this? How could this happen here? In his line of work, Greg had seen all sorts of quirks and deviant behavior. What people should have been protesting was the brutal way in which Jeff was murdered. What people should have been morally outraged about was the fact that an innocent boy was ganged up on and tortured out of hate.

But the only thing these people were angry about was the fact that the vermin who did it to him were being punished for it.

Greg closed his eyes so he didn't have to see the signs they were holding. He let Sara guide him to the steps of the church, drowning out the sounds of their indignation with his thoughts, and blind to their ignorant signs. Ignorant not because of the hate they displayed, but because they proudly expressed that hate without knowing anything about the person they were hating. They didn't know, for example, that Jeff was an avid member of his college's Theater for Charity group. They didn't know that he was eager to learn about the world. They didn't know that he was a baseball star, or a brother, or a son.

They only knew he was gay, and to them that condemned his entire character.

A claw reached out and snagged his arm, making him jolt his eyes open and turn in that direction. He saw a man holding a sign in one hand and his arm in the other, sneering at him.

"Jeff Webster rots in hell!" he shouted. "And so will you if you continue to idolize him!"

Greg bit his tongue. He remembered what happened the last time he lashed out in anger. He pulled his arm out of the protester's grip and noticed the sign, an echo of the words that had vandalized his jacket. He narrowed his eyes and was about to finally try and tell the man about the kid they were condemning when Sara pulled him abruptly by the hand and into the church.

It was sacredly silent compared to outside of it, and there were a surprising number of people there. On their way in, they passed Mr. and Mrs. Webster. Greg stopped and turned to them, shaking the hand of Jeff and Adam's father. He smiled warmly at Greg.

"You guys could have had this in San Gabriel," he said. "You might have avoided all of this."

"Jeff had made Las Vegas his home," Mr. Webster said quietly. "He had more friends here than in California."

Greg nodded and smiled reassuringly at Mrs. Webster. He reached out to shake her hand and give his condolences but she pulled him into a warm embrace.

"Thank you for coming, Greg," she whispered in his ear.

"Of course I'd come," he said, forcing a light laugh. He pulled away and held Mrs. Webster by the shoulders. "Mrs. Webster, I just wish—"

She gave him a big smile before cutting him off. "Greg, you have done so much for Adam and Jeffrey. You found his killers, you defend Jeff at every turn, and best of all, I'm just glad Adam has a friend like you around to help him through this. He lived for his little brother."

Greg nearly suffocated, his throat felt so tight. "Mrs. Webster, I didn't find Jeff's killers..." he said, then looked at Sara who had been politely waiting a little behind him. He smiled. "She did."

Mrs. Webster beamed at Sara and stepped towards her. She took her by the shoulders. "You are one of God's angels," she said reverently.

A tinge of red graced Sara's pale cheeks. "I'm... No angel, Mrs. Webster, I just did my job."

But Mrs. Webster shook her head and gathered Sara into a maternal hug, which the CSI awkwardly returned. "You bring justice to lost souls," she whispered. "That's more than just a job to me."

When she pulled away, Sara's eyes were glistening as she smiled to bite back the tears. She nodded politely at Mr. and Mrs. Webster before making a quick exit with her head ducked low down the aisle.

Greg smiled one last time at the Websters before following Sara and catching up with her. She had stopped in the middle of the aisle and was looking up at the high ceilings and stained glass windows of the cathedral-like church. When she felt him by her side,

she moved closer to him and gripped his arm before pulling him down the aisle with her again.

"What's the matter?" he asked her.

"I sometimes get a little claustrophobic in churches," she replied, her eyes looking around. She looked at him and gave him a wry smile. "You think that's a sign that I'm hell-bound?"

He kissed her forehead. "Impossible," he said. "You're an angel, remember?" He looked up at the photograph of Jeff at the end of the aisle. He was wearing a Dodgers hat and a blue blazer and tie as he posed in front of an oak tree. His black curls, as unruly as his brother's, was growing out from beneath the hat, as if it were trying to escape. It made Greg smile. "No one's going to hell today."

He felt her shaking beside him. "I've been thanked by families before," she said. "But that was uncalled for. I'm not what she thinks I am."

"You're right," Greg said as they both sat down in the second pew from the front. She gave him a curious look and he squeezed her hand. "You're much more than that."

She looked sharply away from him and pulled her hand out of his grip, choosing instead to use it to wring out her other hand.

Greg sighed, recognizing her avoidance, and decided to leave her alone for a while. He had clearly said the wrong thing. Well, he didn't _always_ know what to say to her. In fact, he rarely felt like he said or did anything right around her at all.

He looked across the aisle and saw Adam, his head lowered in prayer. The Websters had always been religious, though not in the strictest sense. Greg always had the idea that their beliefs were a personal source of comfort and guidance to them more than anything else. They prayed before every meal, and often before bed, but they rarely went to church. He had often heard them speak of things that God loved, but never of things that God scorned. God loves patience. God loves forgiveness. God loves generosity, and humility, and love itself.

The only time Greg tore his eyes away from Adam was when the ceremony began and he hung his head in prayer himself. Having never really been particularly religious himself, he wasn't too sure what he was supposed to pray about. Of course he prayed for Jeff and his family. But mostly, and probably selfishly, he prayed for answers. There were just too many things he didn't understand that he needed to know.

When the service began in earnest, and the pastor began to speak, Greg looked back at Adam and saw that he was covering his mouth with his hand, as if holding back inappropriate words, but he never made a sound.

After the service was over, Greg worked up the courage to go speak with Adam. It would be the first time since the argument in his apartment, and he was a little nervous about it, but he wanted to apologize for his harsh words.

Adam was standing by his brother's fresh grave, watching it with his head cocked to the side as if he didn't quite understand the sight before him. Greg took his spot next to his old friend.

"It's not your fault, Adam," he said frankly.

"It's not yours either," he sighed. "I... I'm sorry."

"You never need to apologize to me," Greg assured him.

Adam rubbed his eyes. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "I've been thinking a lot since it happened," he said. "And I've been talking to Mom and Dad about it. We want people to know this can't be tolerated. That this isn't how the world is supposed to be." He pursed his lips. "We're going to go for the death penalty. For the lot of them."

Greg bowed his head, mildly surprised by his friend's words. "But I thought your folks were against capital punishment," he whispered.

Adam looked away from him. "Well... Sometimes, your perspective changes."

"No," Greg said. "You've lost Jeff. You can't lose your value system. Don't do it, Adam. Revenge is... It's not what you want."

"You don't want them dead?" Adam asked, his voice trembling. "Don't you want to watch them die? Like they watched _him_ die?"

"Do you?" Greg returned. He didn't want to admit that in his worst nightmares, it was Adam they had killed, or sometimes Sara, or Nick, and in his best dreams he was the one who administered the lethal injection.

Adam narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, Greg, I do," he said.

"It's really strange," Greg began, "to see you like this."

Adam seemed confused. "How do you mean?"

"I don't think you've wanted revenge for anything in your life," Greg explained. "You've never been madder at anyone for more than a couple hours. It's just... unlike you to hold a grudge."

"My brother was murdered, Greg," Adam hissed. "You think that's the same as crashing my car sophomore year?"

Greg was startled that Adam would reference that particular instance. "You never got over it, did you?" he asked quietly. "The car thing?"

"Don't be stupid," Adam muttered, turning away from him again. "It was just a car."

"I always thought it was weird, the way you just got over things..." Greg muttered thoughtfully. "But you never really did, did you?"

"Shut up, Greg," Adam demanded. "Don't do this today."

Greg nodded and held his tongue. This wasn't the place to discuss such things. "You know I'm here for you, right?" Greg asked.

Adam sighed. "Yeah. Yeah, Greg, I know."

Even though he said it, Greg had the sinking feeling that their friendship wouldn't be the same after today. He looked down at the ground, his eyes tracing up Jeff's marble headstone. He turned his head and looked towards the gates of the cemetery, where more protestors waited. Adam seemed to follow his gaze.

"Those assholes don't even know what the hell they're talking about," Adam said bitterly. He closed his eyes tight, and turned away. "You wouldn't think there'd be so many of them in a city like this. I mean, it's a fucking modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. If they fear for their immortal souls, they should have gotten out of this town long ago." He turned to Greg, his face contorted in silent agony. "I honestly didn't think it would _matter_ here!" he said, choking back tears. "I mean, it's _Vegas_. I didn't think people would care that much. I didn't want this..." He turned away from Greg again and rubbed his arms. "This isn't what I wanted to happen."

"I told you, Adam, it's—"

"It's not my fault, I know!" Adam interrupted, looking up at the sky. He took a deep breath and exhaled. "I keep... telling myself that, but it doesn't make it..." he trailed off and rubbed his arms, as if the dry June air was frozen.

Greg understood all too well his predicament. How many nights had he lied awake telling himself these things? _It's not your fault, you didn't mean to kill anyone. You were scared and confused, you didn't want to kill him. It's not your fault he's dead._ They always just sounded like excuses.

"Adam... I get it," was all he could think to say. "I don't know if it means anything, or if it helps, but I get it. I'm out of advice and words of wisdom, and I don't know how to make everything better, and I can't bring him back. But I get it." He looked up at Adam then, to see if there was any change in him, but there wasn't. He doubted his honest words had touched him at all. He shoved his hands deeply into the pockets of his black suit and stared at the grass. "Well... I'm going to be leaving now. You take care..."

"Son of a bitch..." Adam muttered.

For a moment, Greg thought he was talking about him, but then he looked up and saw that Adam's attentions were focused on the gates, outside of which one man was waving a sign high above the rest with Jeff's picture on it. Except Jeff's eyes were cigarette burns, and red ink declared that "Jeff Rots In Hell."

"Adam, don't—"

But it was too late. The surviving Webster brother was off, traveling across the graveyard at break-neck speeds to get to the gate and Greg jetted off after him. But Adam was faster than Greg, he always had been. And when he got there, he reached through the bars of the gate and seized the offending sign holder by the collar with white-knuckled fists.

"You don't even know what you're talking about!" Adam yelled, spitting coldly in the protestors face. He looked at the lot of them. "None of you know what you're talking about at all! You don't know jack about Jesus! And you don't know jack about my brother! Because if you knew _anything_ about either one of them, you wouldn't be here today! You'd be biting your tongues. You think Jesus would be out here with you? You think you're doing _God's_ work? You're just bigots unjustly hiding behind a religious mask. God doesn't support this. Jesus doesn't condone hate. So just lay off! Go home! Leave my brother alone!"

He threw the man he was holding back, and he fell to the ground, dropping his sign, whereupon Adam grabbed it and pulled it under the gate, stomping on it viciously.

"You and your family are the spawn of Satan!" the scorned man yelled. This was echoed by cries of agreement from the crowd.

"How typical," Adam said, nearly in hysterics. "How fucking _typical_. You have no argument! So you resort to saying that everything that is the least bit different from you is Satan's work! Well, good for you."

He kicked the battered sign back under the gate and turned around, walking past Greg up the path. Greg looked at the protestors, then at Adam, and then noticed the news cameras. That was the last thing this family needed. More bad publicity.

He stared at the mob and frowned. Their words didn't infuriate him, like they did Adam. He just didn't understand. Even though he saw the results of raw human emotion every day, he didn't understand how the human soul could be capable of housing so much hate without crumbling into dust. 


	5. God's Message

**_Author's Note:_** Hey, sorry for the no update in a while. I got to DC and was a little swept away by everything, but I think I'm back into the swing of things now. A little bit of a shorter chapter, but I like this one. Hope it isn't too cliche for anyone's tastes.

* * *

After the funeral, Greg had a few hours before his shift started. Sara invited him over to watch a movie, hinting that she expected more, but to his surprised, he was uninterested. He told her he wanted to go home and take a nap, but instead he went back to that bar. The last place he had seen Jeff Webster alive. 

He took his seat on the same stool he had occupied the night of Jeff's death and ordered a rum and coke. The bartender didn't recognize him, or if he did, he definitely didn't show it. The seven o'clock news was on and Greg's ears perked up at the sound of a few familiar names.

"Adam Webster, brother of the deceased, finally showed the protesters how he felt today when he viciously attacked one of them at the gates of the cemetery."

He looked up as he watched the news station run the clip of Adam yelling at the protestor. Through the shouting of the mob, Adam couldn't really be heard clearly, so the news station provided subtitles.

"God doesn't support this. Jesus doesn't condone hate."

He saw himself, standing behind Adam, and for the first time noticed the look of utter horror on his face. He frowned. He didn't look too bad in that suit.

They went back to the blonde anchorwoman. "After that, he seized the protestor's sign and tore it up with his feet before kicking it back under the fence. In other news..."

Greg immediately lost interest and he stared down at his drink. The bartender had poured in a little too much coke. He could barely taste the rum. Cheapskate.

"Hey," a gruff voice on his right said. Greg glanced up at him, disinterested. He had a little growth of a white beard, flecked with brown and gray. Still, he looked far from old, without a wrinkle on his face, and he seemed strong enough to give Greg a hard time. He wore a patched fedora and a heavy brown coat, even though it was the middle of June.

"Yeah?" Greg said to the man, whose eyes were on the TV.

The man pointed at the screen. "That was you, wasn't it? On the TV?"

Greg didn't reply. He just looked back at his drink and took another long sip.

"That's a yes, ain't it?" the man asked.

"And what are you going to do about it, huh?" Greg burst out. "You going to beat me up too? Yeah, that was me, and that was my friend taking a stand for what he believed in and you know what, he's right! He's definitely right because I don't know who's going to hell, or heaven, or if there even are such places, but I know one thing's for sure, you have _no right_ to tell a grieving family that their son and brother deserved to die."

The man looked staggered as he recoiled from Greg, his eyes wide, but his brow was knit in a curiously confused expression. "Nah, man, nah," he said, holding up his hands in submission. "I just wanted to tell you 'good job,' OK?"

Greg dropped his aggressive pose and his shoulders slumped. He seized his drink and downed it in one gulp, slamming it back on the table. "Sorry," he muttered.

The man next to him smiled. "At least there are still a few good people who get the message."

Greg was interested, and a little guilty, so he humored the man. "What message is that?" he asked.

"The one Jesus kept trying to pound into people's thick skulls," the guy replied, sounding a little amused.

"I'm not too religious," Greg told him. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize, it's just a part of who you are, ain't it?" the guy asked. He tipped his hat at Greg. "The main thing JC wanted to leave folks with was the message. Not the commandments, not the sins, not the rewards of Heaven or the punishments of Hell... it was the message."

"So what is this message?" Greg asked. "Thou shalt not be gay?"

"Are you even listening to me, kid?" the man asked with a smile. "I'm trying to tell you something important here."

Greg closed his eyes and looked away from the older man. "So tell me already."

"Well, I might have misspoke," said the man. "It's not exactly something you tell. It's something you do. Something you feel. Something you are."

"And what am I?" Greg asked him, becoming jaded with the conversation.

The man put a hand on Greg's shoulder. "A good person."

"That's it?" Greg asked. "That's the message? Be a good person? Fuck, those guys out there, protesting Jeff? They think _they're_ being good people! Do you know how many fucking definitions there are of 'being a good person?' Thanks for the ambiguity."

"But truth is never ambiguous," the man told him. "You have love in your heart. If you hold forgiveness there as well, it will heal you better than a bitter grudge."

Greg looked at his watch. "I have to go," he lied. "It was fantastic talking to you."

"No, don't bother," said the man with a sigh. "I can take a hint." He rose to his feet and patted Greg on the back as he headed for the door. "But don't forget the message."

"What message?!" Greg moaned.

"I think you know what it is, Greg," the man said with a mysterious smile, and then made his way out the door.

Greg watched after him curiously. His mind went over their entire conversation. He didn't remember mentioning his name, but that didn't mean that he hadn't at some point, or that the man hadn't heard it from the news broadcast. Though why they would mention him on the news, Greg wasn't too sure.

He didn't dwell on it too long. He ordered another rum and coke, and asked for two shots in it this time. He kept his eyes focused on the scamming bartender to make sure he wasn't getting gypped. No one ever fooled Greg Sanders twice.

* * *

Greg rarely heard from Adam after the funeral, except to receive updates on the trial. Sara noticed that Jeff's death had a significant impact on Greg's life as well. She didn't know if it was because Greg had been closer to Jeff than she'd thought, or if it was just because he was losing his best friend. Either way, she was concerned. 

She cornered him in the locker room one night as he was gathering his things, preparing to leave. He pulled off a stained black shirt and held it out at arm's length to look at it. He wrinkled his nose at it and threw it in the locker before taking out an old and a little wrinkled wild colored Hawaiian shirt. He frowned at it in distaste.

Sara chuckled, catching his attention. He forced a smile. "Why Sara Sidle, I never knew you were a voyeur."

"That shirt looks like it hasn't been worn in five years," she commented.

And now, his smile turned genuine. "It hasn't," he admitted. "But I haven't cleaned out my locker in years, so believe it or not this is the only clean shirt I have here right now, since I spilled sour milk on the one I had."

"Dumpster diving again?" Sara guessed. "I was wondering why you smelled like old pizza." Greg put the shirt on and began buttoning it up. Sara's smile faded a little. "You know, I kind of miss those shirts," she admitted.

He looked up at her, the shirt half buttoned. "No you don't," he said with a doubtful laugh.

She stepped into the room and approached him as she nodded. "I do," she insisted. She put her hands on his chest and slowly slid them up to his shoulders and around his neck. "I miss a lot of things about you."

She made to kiss him but he pulled out of her grip and turned back to his locker. He hung his head as he continued to button his shirt, pretending she wasn't there.

She felt jilted. "What's wrong with you? You've barely said two words to me all day!"

"I've been busy," he muttered defensively.

She folded her arms and pouted. "Dumpster diving, yeah, I can smell it on you. What's happened to you, Greg? It used to be you'd take any excuse for a joke."

"It's just Adam—"

"No," she interrupted. "It's been going on long before Jeff died."

He looked up at her, as if he didn't understand. With his hair tousled from the long day he'd just had, and the wrinkled Hawaiian shirt on his shoulders, he almost looked like he did in his lab rat days. "I grew up," he finally snapped. He slammed his locker door and moved past Sara and out of the room.

She wasn't going to let him go that easily. Spinning around on her heal, she headed after him at a brisk pace.

"Greg!" she cried authoritatively, making him stop halfway down the hall. He turned to face her and offered his hands to her, palms up.

"What do you want from me, Sara?" he asked, coming closer to her.

"I want you to stop pulling away from me!" she returned.

He opened his mouth to yell back, but found no words. Once again, he was speechless in the presence of Sara Sidle. "Dammit!" he exclaimed, and he turned away from her again, frustrated.

She grabbed his shoulder and forced him to turn around. "I miss you," she declared desperately. "I want you _back_."

He closed his eyes, then laughed and shook his head. "I just still can't believe it, you know?" he said. "How ugly this world is?"

She bowed her head, then looked up at him again with a curious smile on her face. "So you think I'm ugly?" she asked.

He was caught off guard by the question. "What? That's not what I said—"

"But aren't I your world?" she returned.

He was flabbergasted. "That's not what I meant and you know it!"

She grinned at him and reached up to cup his cheek. "It is a sad, _sad_ day when I smile more than you do."

But he shook his head and squirmed out of her grasp once again. "It's just, ever since I became a CSI, it was like I'd opened the gates to Hell, and I could never go back. Don't get me wrong, I love it, I love making a difference, I love speaking for the dead, and working through the puzzles and giving those bastards out there their dues, but... But I see a body, like Jeff's body, and what someone could do to an innocent kid because they hate what he stands for, not even who he is and I... I just can't understand it sometimes. I _still_ don't. And to think people actually _support_ that kind of brutality is just chilling to me. It fucking scares me to death. Because it's going to happen again, and again, and we can't _stop _it because we can't change how people think, or how they act, or how they are..." He trailed off and stared out into space over Sara's shoulder. He frowned and blinked a few times, and then spoke as if he was still sorting out what he was going to say even as he said it. "But I have to accept that... Because that's just how things are. Because if I don't, then I'll be like them. Because they can't accept how things are."

Sara's smile faded, and she slid her arms around his waist and rested her palms on his back. It took a moment, but slowly his arms rose to return the embrace. She tightened her grip on him, and turned her head to whisper in his ear, so he could feel her words as much as he heard them.

"But this is what it's all for, isn't it? This is what it all _means_. Human connection. We fight the good fight because of it. Those people you're talking about, Greg? They're scared too. Of you. Of this. Of God, of Hell, of change, of difference, of death, of everything. But you can't worry about them. Let them worry about themselves. Just get on with your life."

She slowly pulled away from him and took both of his hands in hers. Her smile broadened a moment, lighting up her pale features, before she dropped his hands and turned away from him again.

She didn't get far.

He seized her hand again and spun her forcefully back into his arms and claimed her lips for his own. It was filled with such fire, such life-affirming passion, that for a moment her heart was beating so rapidly it broke the laws of physics. He had been starving without her, and now he was voracious in the way he devoured her. His grip on her was so firm, she thought that he would never let her go, and a part of her liked the idea.

He pulled her back into the locker room and pushed her up against the door before reluctantly parting lips with her.

He was breathing as if he had just run a mile as he looked into her eyes with unasked, desperate questions she was dying to answer, if only she knew what they were.

"Don't leave me," he begged her, his voice shaking.

That one was easy. She laughed with a deep relief that flooded her body and closed her eyes. Her hands fell down his back and rested on his hips and she felt his moist palms on her shoulders. She smelled the garbage on him that he had been exploring earlier, along with a distinctly Greg-like musk that crept through the unappetizing scent and made her want to make him lay down on her bed so it would sink into her linens and she would have him there every time she went to sleep at night. Old bananas and sour milk and all.

"I'm not going anywhere, Greg," she told him.

He slowly smiled, then bent his head as he let out a breathless laugh, nuzzling his face in the nape of her neck. She brought her arms up around his back again and kissed his ear.

"When you were out there, in that desert," he began. "I was so scared."

She tensed, and he must have felt it because he pulled away from her again to peer into her eyes. "I'm sorry, but my god, you must have felt so alone. And I hate that, I hate it, because no one should feel that isolated, especially people I love because to me... Jesus, Sara, I mean... You've gotta know, I'm _always_ thinking about you, and... He had people like that, too. I can't believe Jeff had to die like that. Alone, in the desert. With people who hated him."

"But I'm still here," Sara told him firmly. "I didn't die. And neither did you, Greg. We're still here. Even if Jeff isn't. And I bet you could tell me a thing or two about feeling alone."

He kissed her again, and his fingernails dug into her skin, but she didn't mind. He pulled away and smiled at her. "I'm sorry I've been so weird lately," he said. "I'll fix it, I promise."

She grinned back at him and then jolted as the door moved behind her. Greg started laughing and the two of them moved to see the door fall open with Nick stumbling behind it. He looked at Greg and Sara suspiciously.

"What were you two doing blocking the door?" Sara and Greg burst out laughing and Nick just shook his head. "Whatever!" he said, and went to his locker.

Greg looked at Sara. "I'm going to go now," he said. "Is that OK?"

She nodded, and glanced at Nick who was watching them in the mirror as he got something out of his locker. "Go for it," she said to Greg. "I'll see you... later."

He winked at her then headed out of the locker room.

He was about to head to the door, when someone called his name, quiet, but desperate. He turned.

"Mrs. Webster," he remarked. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," she replied

He moved towards her briskly, with open arms. "Well, it's great to see you. How are you doing?"

"We're getting by," she responded. "I wanted to talk to you about Adam."

"I know as much about him as you do as it stands," Greg said with a sigh.

She nodded and pursed her lips. "I know you two haven't been very close lately..." she said sadly. "But I thought maybe, if you talked to him, he might change his mind."

"What am I changing his mind about?" Greg asked.

She sighed and rubbed her arms. "I've been thinking a lot..." she said. "And I've been speaking with Adam's father about it. We both think that... Jeffery wouldn't have wanted to see us pursue the death penalty so avidly for these men. But Adam doesn't understand that. He's become so angry, he's stopped listening to me. I was hoping maybe you could talk to him and... bring him back to us."

Greg wished he could tell her that he would solve all her problems, but a broken man was impossible to fix if he wanted to remain broken. "Mrs. Webster, I can't change Adam's mind about anything. I never could, not since we were kids."

"But he still _listens_ to you," Mrs. Webster pleaded. "Would you just try it for me? For Jeff?"

Greg couldn't say no to a grieving mother. "I'll try," he told her. "But I'm not making any promises."

"That's all I ask of you," Mrs. Webster said. She squeezed Greg's hand. "You're a good person, Greg. God bless you."

For some reason, the words struck something in Greg and he wasn't too sure why. He thought about it as he watched the woman leave. The words felt familiar to him, but he couldn't remember where he'd heard them before.

Shrugging off the sense of déjà vu, Greg pulled out his phone to call his old friend and invite him out to dinner.


	6. God's Tears

**_Author's Note:_** OK, methinks there's but one chapter left, and it'll be short. Then it'll be a brief hiatus before returning to Las Plagas. Enjoy. Also, for the record, in case you didn't know, a lesson in Lebanese food. I assume you know what hummus and naan is (a chickpea based dip and flat bread). Kofta is balls of minced meat, and for the record I love kofta. I also love Lebanese food, but that's beside the point.

* * *

God's Tears

They met at a restaurant. It was a Lebanese place, because that was Jeff's favorite kind of food. Greg had suggested it, even though he knew Adam couldn't keep down too many flavors of exotic foods. And Adam agreed, even though he knew that Greg wasn't fond of the Arabic spices.

Greg ordered hummus to start, because it was the only thing they both liked on the menu, along with some garlic naan bread. They made small talk while they waited. Typically, Adam acted as if nothing had happened since college. He laughed and made jokes, teasing Greg every now and then, asking about Sara. He never once mentioned Jeff's name.

When the hummus arrived, Greg bit his lip and watched Adam break off a piece of the garlic naan. Adam felt Greg's eyes and stopped chewing. "What?" he asked with his mouth full.

"Don't go for the death penalty," Greg finally burst out.

Adam swallowed and put the bread down, his jubilant smile fading away. "Don't tell me what to do."

"You don't want this," Greg said. "You used to hate the death penalty, don't you remember? You couldn't believe I worked in a state that allowed it."

Adam's expression began to sour. "You sound like my mother," he said accusingly. "Has she been talking to you?"

"She just wants to make things right," Greg argued.

"I _am_ making things right!" Adam yelled. It caused a few patrons of the restaurant to look over at them. But Greg expected this when he went out with Adam. He always hoped Adam would realize that a public area was no place to make a scene. But he never did.

He hated to remind him. "Calm down. Remember what happened last time you made a scene in a public place?"

Adam blanched, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, low and deadly. "Oh don't you go there, Greg Sanders, don't you fucking go there."

"That's better," Greg lied. A quiet Adam was scarier than a loud one. "I just wanted to talk to you about this in a... casual way."

"Casual?" Adam spat.

"For lack of a better word," Greg explained. "Listen, Adam. Think about your parents. They're suffering too here, it's not just you."

"Are you saying I'm being selfish?" Adam hissed.

"Yes!" Greg returned. "Yes, dammit, I am. Adam, you're being selfish. You're being selfish, and arrogant, all over again, just like every other time. You aren't the only one that matters! There are people _around_ you Adam that _matter_ and you need to think about what _they_ want for a minute. You need to realize that you're not the only one in pain. I'm hurting here too, Adam!"

"You didn't lose a—"

"No, Adam, no I didn't lose a brother," Greg interrupted. "But I did lose a good friend."

Adam scoffed and leaned back in his chair. "You barely knew Jeff."

"But I knew you," said Greg. Adam didn't speak. Greg looked down at the naan on his plate and sighed. "I've lost _you_. You're not who you used to be. His death had changed you. Made you ugly."

But Adam shook his head. "I've always been ugly, Greg," he said. "You could just never see it beneath my boyish good looks." He smiled.

"Stop it," Greg sighed, closing his eyes so he didn't have to see Adam's mask. "Just... _stop_ making jokes like everything is OK! Everything is _not_ OK, not with you, not with me, not with us. What would Jeff say, if he saw you acting this way?"

Adam was ready with his answer. "He'd say, 'Oh look, Adam screwed up again!' You know why? Because he was better than me. Because he was _smarter_ than me, because he was more _adventurous_ than me, because he was _braver_ than me, because he was _kinder_ than me, because he could make an _acquaintance_ feel better than I've ever made anyone feel. Because _he_ was the good one, and now he's _gone_, and all my parents have left is _me_. The screw-up."

He was crying now, and he blinked before looking sharply away from Greg, who was absolutely stunned.

"Adam..." he began. He hadn't expected this at all. "Adam, listen to me. You aren't a screw-up. Do you really think that about yourself?"

"Look at the facts," Adam told him. "Jeff always got better grades than I did in school. Jeff had more activities than I did. He knew more about the world. He had better friendships. Hell, he even charmed you into liking him better than—" He cut himself off and stuffed a piece of naan in his mouth.

Greg's eyes slowly widened. "You think I liked him more than I liked you..." he breathed.

Adam simply chewed the flat bread and didn't answer.

Greg let out a long sigh, then smiled. "Jesus, Adam..." he said. "You're brother was a great guy. But you've been my best friend since kindergarten. Why the hell would I like someone I barely knew more than I liked you?"

Adam had swallowed by now and was hanging his head low. "Because everyone else does," he whispered. "Because sooner or later, whatever friends I have somehow end up disappearing. Because people get tired of me. Because they can't stand how I'm loud, or how I embarrass them, or how crazy I am. They all eventually leave. Even you. You came out here to Las Vegas." He looked up and blinked at Greg. "Did you say... I've _been_ your best friend?"

Greg's lips slowly curled into a smile. "Yeah, I did," he said simply.

Slowly, Adam smiled back.

Then, their food came and they ate it quietly for a moment. Greg began to regret ordering lamb kofta while Adam happily inhaled his basic salad. He wasn't making jokes. He wasn't yelling. He was just eating. And smiling.

When Greg finally gave up on the kofta, he brought up the issue again, but chose a different tactic. "Do you really think, if your roles had been reversed, Jeff would have gone for the death penalty?"

Adam looked up at Greg, completely inscrutable. "No," he said. "I don't think he would have."

"Does that mean you think he'd miss you any less?"

Adam looked down at his almost-empty plate. "No," he replied. "Jeff just didn't like killing. He used to say to me..." And now he laughed. "He used to say that, 'Everybody believes what they do for a reason.' He said we should..." He sighed. "We should look for forgiveness where we find hate." He looked up at Greg again. "But like I said before, he was a better person than I am."

"Adam, I think you would all get through this easier if—"

"Just drop it, OK Greg?" Adam snapped. He finished off his salad quickly.

Greg pouted, annoyed. Well, he told Mrs. Webster that he tried. But Adam was a stubborn monster, and there was no changing his opinion on anything. He let his eyes wander around the room and saw a group of teenage boys watching him from their table. When they saw him look, they started laughing and pretended they hadn't been watching him. Greg ignored them, figuring they were just some high schoolers out for some fun. He looked back at Adam, who refused to look up at him again.

"You won't let me bring it up again, will you?" he asked.

"Do you want to see a movie after this?" he answered.

Greg sighed and smiled as he leaned back in his chair. "Fine. Movie. Great." He threw his napkin onto the table and caught the waiter as he passed, asking for the check.

The teenagers got up to leave. As they past the table, one remarked to Greg, "You've got yourself a real drama queen, man. Why don't you two just get a room?"

He snickered and Greg tensed as he saw Adam look up. He knew exactly what was going to happen before Adam even left his seat, and just as Greg predicted, he leapt at the boy and struck him hard across the face.

"_Adam_!" Greg screamed, jumping up as well to try and intervene. His friends scattered and fled as Adam pinned the kid to the ground, whose tears were mixing with the blood gushing from his nose.

"Stop, please!" the boy whimpered, sounding much younger than he appeared. "I was only kidding, I don't care if you're gay!"

"You think those kind of jokes are _funny_?!" he demanded. "They can get people killed!"

"Adam!" Greg yelled again, this time seizing his friend by the shoulder. His touch seemed to pull Adam back to his state of mind and he released his grip on the boy's shoulders.

Greg looked up when the door flew open, and in rushed his friends with an older man who appeared to be in his twenties. "Get the hell off of my brother!" the man roared.

Adam took a deep breath and for a moment, he looked petrified. Greg shook his shoulder and helped him off of the poor, whimpering teenager. Adam stared from the boy on the ground to his older brother, who was instantly at the teenager's side, helping him sit up and cleaning the blood from his nose. He looked over his shoulder at Adam with a loathing Greg recognized immediately, because he had seen it before in Adam's eyes, when he looked at the protestors.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he growled.

"Fucking fags," one of the teenager's friends muttered to another.

Adam's breaths were shaking. He ran a trembling hand through his hair. "I... I have to go," he said.

"Good," said a nearby waiter. "Because I was just about to ask you to leave."

Adam looked blankly at the waiter and nodded, realizing now that all eyes were on him. He turned to Greg, the horror-struck look still etched in his features as if it would never leave. He was paler than a bleached sheet and it scared Greg a little. "I'm sorry, Greg, I just..."

"Go," Greg said flatly. "I'll take care of it."

And go he did, proceeding down the walk of shame through the beaten teenager's friends and other patrons of the restaurant, who were all regarding him with disgusted looks and murmuring about how wicked he must be.

And for some reason, Greg felt like they didn't have the right to regard him with such contempt.

After the door closed behind Adam, Greg grabbed the napkin off of his table and knelt down on the other side of the wounded boy. "Here, let me help," he said softly, but the older brother batted his hand away and sneered at him.

"You've helped enough."

"I didn't hit your brother," Greg protested.

"No, your boyfriend did," the brother muttered as he tended to the teenager.

Greg cast his gaze downward. "Adam isn't gay," he said. "And neither am I. But his brother is. Was." He looked up at the brother, who glanced at him fleetingly, and Greg saw the curiosity in his eyes.

Greg rose to his feet and pulled out his wallet.

"So what, are you gonna pay us not to sue you?!" the brother snapped.

Greg had to laugh. "You wouldn't have a case," he said, then nodded at the waiter. "No, this is for my dinner." He handed the waiter the money, who counted it and nodded. Greg turned back to the brother, who had once again lost interest in Greg. Greg didn't care. He made his way for the door, through the gaggle of friends and hesitated with his hand on the door knob as he looked back at the two brothers.

"Tell your kid brother to... be careful about some of the jokes and remarks he makes to perfect strangers. Adam shouldn't have hit him, but he had a point." He looked at the friend who had used the slur earlier. "Sometimes, they get people killed."

And without another word, he too was gone.

* * *

Once again, the weeks passed without any word from Adam. Greg moved on with his life. He tried to be happier, but something was missing. Something still wasn't right yet. And though he faked a smile every time Sara walked into the room, she always saw through it. But eventually, she always had a way of making his fake smile genuine. He fell back into his routine, and everything was back to normal around the lab, more or less, and he liked that. Because while he was often distracted with thoughts of Adam and whether or not he should call to see how his old friend was dealing with the case, he enjoyed the normalcy of his surroundings. It made him feel at home again.

He and Nick had just returned from a scene. Greg told Nick he needed some coffee and that he'd catch up with him. But when he turned into the break room he suddenly stopped.

Sara stood with her arms folded and looking down at the floor as she chewed her lip. A full head taller than her, Adam's eyes were also cast downward, but he looked as if he was about to speak when he noticed Greg in the doorway.

"Hey," he said simply, making Sara look over at him as well. A soft smile graced her features.

"Hi, Greg," she put in, her voice ringing like bells. It warmed Greg every time he heard her voice.

But now, he turned his attention to Adam. "What's up?"

Adam's eyes darted at Sara before he approached Greg. "I was wondering if we could go somewhere. Would you mind?"

Greg frowned, confused. He looked over at Sara. "Adam, I'm working right now..."

"I know," Adam said. "I know. It can wait until your shift is over. But will you come with me?"

"Where are we going?" Greg asked.

"Just come with me," Adam pleaded. "I'll... I'll need you there."

Now very confused, Greg slowly nodded and agreed. "Sure. My shift's over at four. Will you be awake?"

"All night," Adam replied with a sigh. He smiled, but there was no heart in it. "I'll see you later, Greg." And with that, he left.

Greg turned to Sara. "What was that about?" he asked.

"The sentencing is tomorrow," Sara replied. "He and his parents are allowed to say something, if they want."

"He's going to say something?" Greg was a little surprised. "What's he going to say? I hate you, you killed my brother?"

"I don't think he knows _what_ he's going to say," Sara told him. "But he wants to go to the crime scene. He wants to see where his brother was killed."

"Oh..." Greg muttered. "So _that's_ where we're going. Do you think he can take it?"

Her smile grew and she closed the distance between them. "With you there, Greg, I'm sure he could take anything," she replied, before kissing him softly and briefly. "I have to go, Catherine and I have a fungus experiment going on, I need to check on it."

"You didn't use any of the lab rats as guinea pigs, do you?" Greg asked, suspiciously. "Because I am a very big activist against animal testing."

"Who do you think I am?" Sara responded in mock offense. "Grissom?" They both chuckled. "I assure you the lab rats are safe. Although we were tempted to use Hodges."

"Alright," he said. "I'll see you later." He kissed her goodbye and went off to find Nick again.

* * *

It was lightly raining when they arrived and the clouds darkened the horizon. Greg was a little surprised and he looked up at the sky as he stepped out of the driver's seat. Adam was out of the car before he was, heading over towards a spot by the side of the road where a cross stood, adorned with flowers and wreathes. There were even a few cards, with various phrases of support on them. Adam picked up one specifically and looked at it before falling to his knees.

Greg came up behind him and looked down at the card in Adam's hand. It had a beautifully crudely drawn angel on the front, as if a child had crafted it and the words on the inside were written in black ink that began to run from the raindrops. They read _God Bless Jeff Webster_.

"It's safe..." Adam whispered, and Greg could barely hear his soft, strained voice above the sound of the soft rain. His hands looked through the flowers, brushed over the cards. "No one has torn it down or... or said that Jeff was going to hell or... He's safe here."

Greg bent his head down in reverence. Adam's finger tips crawled over the white cross in front of him and he began to cry. Greg slid his hand over his friend's shoulder and squeezed as Adam clutched the card close to his chest, holding onto it for dear life. After a moment, he seemed to come back to himself and he looked up at the desert, and over to the lights of Las Vegas. He let out a curt laugh.

"Would you look at that?" he said. "How they sparkle in the dark?" He looked over his shoulder at Greg, smiling. "It's kinda beautiful, isn't it? This desert. The view of the city."

Greg looked around at the barren landscape, the rain carving holes into the mud. But he remembered it the day he and Sara had arrived at the crime scene. The stars had been bright, even so close to sunset, and it was eerily quiet and peaceful. He wouldn't call it beautiful. But the view of the city certainly was rather dazzling as the lights danced in the darkness. "Yeah," he said to Adam, his voice sounding rough. "Yeah, I guess it is."

Adam smiled and placed his hand on the cross again. "It's the last thing he saw..."

Thunder threatened them with a low growl and Greg saw a flash of lightening in the distance. "A storm is starting up," he said. "I don't want to rush you, but we should head back soon."

"I don't want it to be washed away," Adam said, gathering up the cards as the rain began to pick up. "I don't want this place to just sink into the mud!" He pulled a withering bouquet out from the mud with a pop.

Greg didn't know what to say, or what to do as he watched his desperate friend gathering the cards, and wreathes and flowers as the rain began to beat down on him, and the cross was painted with water and sand. Adam was on his hands and knees, absolutely filthy, but clutching desperately at every piece of paper, every flower petal that was laid there in memory of his brother.

"This is a safe place. I won't have it desecrated by this fucking rain, goddammit!"

"Adam," Greg said, a little more sternly. "Adam, we have to go."

"Help me!" Adam yelled back at Greg, his arms filled with soggy cards and dead flowers.

Greg grabbed Adam by the back of his shirt and pulled him hastily to his feet, making his friend drop the flowers and cards and they fell with a smack into the muddy water. He made to go after them again when Greg stopped him, grabbing him firmly by the shoulders.

"_Look at me, Adam_!" he roared. Stunned, Adam obeyed. "You have to let it go!"

Adam looked desperately at the flowers and cards, already lost to the rain. But he bent down anyway and Greg was just about to yell at him again when he straightened again, holding a single card. The one with the childish angel drawn on the cover.

"I won't let it all go," he told Greg fiercely. Greg smiled and tugged at his arm.

"Come on," he said. "We have to get to the car! You look terrible!"

"So do you!" Adam replied, and they both grinned before sprinting to the car and dashing inside.

Once safely within the confines of the vehicle, the rain pelting the roof and windshield loudly and each one of them sopping wet, they exchanged a quick, silent glance before Greg turned the key in the ignition. As they drove off, Adam's eyes remained on the cross until it was out of sight, all the while hugging the wet greeting card with the runny ink to his chest like a security blanket. 


	7. God's Children

**_Author's Note:_** Details on the inspiration for this story at the end. I will return to_ Las Plagas_ as soon as I am able.

* * *

It was another sunny day in Las Vegas and Greg found himself in the same black suit he had worn to Jeff's funeral. And once again as he stepped out of the car, Sara was clinging tightly to his hand. He was accosted by the noise and closed his eyes to avoid the signs that generally accompanied them. And then, Sara gasped. 

He assumed she had seen a particularly horrific phrase on one of the protester's signs, but the next thing she said to Greg was, "Look!"

He was so baffled by her request that his eyes snapped open and to his utter surprise, he saw no signs at all. He saw nothing, save for a sea of white linen and smiling faces. His jaw dropped.

"They look like angels," he whispered to Sara, who he felt nod by his side as she, too, stared at the line of people standing just before the fence keeping back the protesters. They were dressed in white gowns and wore wings that towered at least seven feet from the ground, hiding the hate and indignant rage that flurried behind them. Even though they could still hear the provocative calls of the zealots beyond the fence, the path from the car to the court seemed tranquil somehow, almost holy.

Greg gestured for Sara to wait and moved to one of the angels. She was the only one who wasn't smiling and her eyes were close. Her face was etched in a beautiful portrait of serenity. She had dirty-blonde hair which was pulled back into a ponytail, and two neat, dyed-red strands framing either side of her face. She had a small frame, that might have looked fragile or delicate, were it not for her massive wings that made her seem rather imposing. She couldn't be older than eighteen, though her face looked like that of a woman in her mid-twenties, and her presence felt as if her soul was as ancient as the Pyramids of Giza. Her chest noticeably moved up and down with every breath, as if she were sleeping. Greg almost hated to disturb her, but he had to know.

"Excuse me," he said, but she didn't reply. "Hello?" he tried, but she still didn't acknowledge him. He lightly touched her arm and her eyes snapped open, a vivid blue which pierced him liked spears, and he wondered if he had broken a grave taboo, in waking an angel.

And then she blinked, and smiled sweetly at him before reaching up to her ears and pulling out the ear plug, like a teenager pulling out the earphone from her mp3 player and returning to reality.

"Would you like to be one of Jeff's angels?" she requested, her voice youthfully cheerful, reverent and wise at the same time.

Greg blinked. "Is that what you're doing?" he inquired, breathless.

She smirked. "Isn't it obvious?" she replied. "I think Ghandi would have approved. 'I like your Christ. I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.' Well, not all of them. Not Jeff. Not his family."

"Who _are_ you?" Greg asked. He thought that maybe she was just an activist, who sympathized with Jeff's cause and took up the sword in his name, so to speak.

"My name is Lisa," she said, still smiling despite the people yelling right behind her that she could now hear. "Jeffery Webster was my very best friend. I was there with him through everything. I wish I could have been there for him through what happened to him all those months ago. But I'm here for him now."

The name rang a bell, and suddenly the pieces fit. "You're the girl he was going to go to Peru with. Climb the Andes, see Machu Picchu."

"Yup, that's me," she chirped. "Would you like a gown and wings? We have extra sets in the van."

Greg looked at the line of people standing side by side, holding hands, not saying a word to the protesters. "Did you do this?"

She nodded. "I started a website, when it all happened," she said. "Posted things like photos and papers Jeff had written, poetry and plays, notes from his online journal... He liked to write, and thank god, because people are _reading_ it. And he's still touching people. And so I posted an announcement asking for volunteers in Las Vegas to stand with me in counter protest. I called it the 'God's Children Campaign,' because that's what we all are, you see. The responses I got were phenomenal." She got excited now, her child-like enthusiasm shining through. "Everyone wanted to help out, though not all of them could make it all the way here. But I do have a girl here all the way from _New York_." She glanced coyly down the line and a brunette turned her head, blushed, and turned away again. Lisa giggled and looked at Greg again. "Nothing's official yet, but she asked me out to dinner and I hope to get a kiss before the evening's out."

Greg's jaw was still open. "All these people... here for Jeff." And the thought warmed him, like nothing other than Sara's touch could do.

Lisa nodded vigorously. "Some of us knew him in life, others just want to support his memory. But in one way or another, Jeff has changed us all. He brought me and Carla together." Lisa glanced again at the brunette and her smile turned into a grin.

"Greg?" Sara was touching his arm, and the warmth in his heart reached boiling temperatures. "We're going to miss the trial, honey."

When he had woken up that morning, Greg hadn't been sure if he could have faced sitting there, listening to Adam condemn the men who murdered his brother. But after this, he felt he could face anything. An angry Ecklie, an arrogant Hodges, The whole James family, Natalie Davis, Gil Grissom and the Devil combined.

Whatever was waiting for him inside that courtroom, he was ready.

Lisa and Sara had prepared him for Armageddon.

* * *

The judge spoke with authority and sympathy at the same time. Greg found that an impressive feat, that he could master both those tones and blend them together so well. 

"It's my understanding that Jeffery's brother Adam would like to say a few words on behalf of the family now. You do understand, Adam, that this is not required from you, it is entirely optional."

Adam rose to his feet the row in front of Greg and Sara. "I know, your honor."

The judge nodded. "Then you may proceed," he said, and Adam stepped up to address the court.

He looked at Greg before he spoke, then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were focused on something off to his right, something Greg couldn't quite see.

"Over the past year, a lot of you here have gotten to know my brother as a victim, or a sinner, or both. But you don't really _know_ him. Can you really know someone, posthumously? But I want to try and tell you about him anyway.

"My brother, Jeff was better than me. I can't think of... any gentler way to say it. He was better at baseball, he was better at trying new things, and he was better at..." He looked at Greg again. "Being good to his friends." He looked at the court now. "He was better with forgiving people than I am. When he was twelve, he got the lead in the school play. He was the best damn Oliver Twist I'd ever seen. And then he went to college, and he majored in theater and international relations. He said that art could change the world. He would be in Peru right now, climbing the Andes, if it wasn't for you, Mr. Howard."

Adam looked down and seemed to collect himself before he continued. "He died out there all alone because of you and your friends. Only he was never really alone. A part of me always went with him, everywhere he went. A part of me would have gone with him all the way to Peru. You killed that, too. You didn't just kill one person, one homosexual. You killed his mother, who cried when she saw his old little league trophy as she moved his things out of his apartment. You killed his father, who wrapped a present for him and put it under the Christmas tree this year and never opened it. You killed his brother, who looked up to him as if _Jeff_ were the oldest child. You killed his best friend, who stands outside like a ghost with angel wings to prove that love and compassion doesn't care if you're gay or an adulterer or a gambler or a murderer...

"Maybe you thought you were doing the world a favor by ridding it of one more gay man. But Jeff wasn't my gay brother. He was my brother, who happened to be gay. And I was damn proud of him. Regardless, of whether you are right or not in your beliefs of the evil of homosexuality, Mr. Howard, you, too, have sinned. And so have I. And dammit, so have us all. And you are _not_ God. And you will _not_ tell me that I am wrong based on your set of values. And you will _not_ kill the part of Jeff that goes with me, everywhere I go.

"I want you dead," Adam snarled through gritted teeth. "I would celebrate your execution day annually. And if it were up to me..." He looked at his parents and his lip quivered. "I would ask for the death penalty today. But Jeff, ever the pacifist, wouldn't want that. Like I told you, he was better than me, and..." He paused. "I should try to be more like him. And so, Mr. Howard... I have a gift for you today. It's something Jeff might have given you, if he could have. You and your friends will get to leave this courtroom today knowing that you will spend the rest of your lives in prison. I give you life, Mr. Howard, in the name of one who no longer has that gift. And every day you wake up, and every night you go to sleep, remember that Jeff can't. Every time you laugh, or have a birthday, remember that Jeff won't. I hope you live a long time. And that you thank Jeff every day for it."

He took a deep breath and swallowed before stepping down. The court slowly began to breathe again, and the Judge spoke and clapped his gavel. People were getting up and moving, but Greg's heart was so heavy, it anchored him to his seat.

Sara took his hand lightly and kneeled down next to him. She brought his hand to her lips and softly kissed it, drawing him out of his daze.

"He didn't..."

"Sh," Sara hushed. "I know. I heard."

"What made him..."

"I don't know," she whispered.

Greg frowned. "I think... it's over."

"It's never over," Sara said. "But it's at peace now."

And she was right. The inner turmoil that had been swirling around in Greg's stomach like a bad hangover was still now, like the placid waters of a deep sea. He knew that underneath the calm waves were the graves of sailors lost to the unpredicted storms of circumstance.

But the waters were quiet now.

He looked at her and smiled, and realized that Mrs. Webster had been right. She was his angel.

* * *

He sat at the bar, alone and depressed, like so many country song writers who began their songs that way. He swirled what was left of his beer around in the bottle. The final drops of his second drink of the evening. He wondered what he hoped to accomplish by staying in a dark place like this by himself. He felt pathetic, without any friends there to keep him company. He should probably go home. 

Someone sat down beside him. "You look a little lonely there, kiddo."

He glanced up fleetingly, but was uninterested in conversation. "Nah, I'm OK," he lied.

The man, who was a bit older than him with brown hair, smiled at him. "My friends and I noticed that spat that happened a while ago involving you."

"Who here didn't?" he asked, bitterly.

"No need to be so down!" said a new voice, a blonde man who sat down on his other side. "We understand what's going on." He smiled at his brown-haired friend. "Don't we, Max?"

"Sure do, Jake," said Max with a wide grin. Max patted him on the back. "See, we understand because we went through it too."

He looked up, confused. "You... you did?"

"Of course we did," Jake said, comfortingly. "What's your name, little fellow?"

He hesitated, then slowly smiled. "Jeff," he said. "And to be honest, I'm... relieved. You were freaking me out there a moment."

"Hey, listen," said Max, leaning forward. "It's Jake's birthday today and this place is a dive. What's say we take you somewhere more exciting? We got some guys waiting for us in the car. It'll be fun."

Jeff held his breath. "I dunno, see, I have a lot to do tomorrow, and my brother might call—"

"We'll take good care of you," Jake told him. "After all, you're among friends now."

Jeff didn't see the snake-like smiles and hungry looks that passed between Jake Bell and Max Howard. He saw the answer to his problem. He would be pathetic if he continued to mope all by himself here at this bar. And he would be even more of a loser if he went home so early, when the night was still young. He had found like-minded individuals. He had found friends. And he'd have a story to tell Adam when he called the next day, like Greg had assured Jeff he would.

So he smiled, genuinely excited to discover what kind of birthday plans Max had in store for Jake that they were willing to let him share. "OK," he said to them, beaming.

The trouble is, no matter how tall of a pedestal Adam put his brother up on, Jeffery Webster had one tragic flaw. He trusted that there was goodness in every human being. And even if he had survived the attack, he would probably still have believed that. After Jeff's death, Adam would have called it naive. But Greg, who shares a little in that belief himself, would have called it inspiring.

**The End**

* * *

_Dedicated to Matthew Shepherd. Only the angels know your truth. God loves those who have lived good lives. The wicked are those whose hearts are clouded with hate, and whose eyes are blinded by hubris. God values love and forgiveness above all else. And you were well-loved by your family and friends. God bless you and your family, and may you rest in peace._

**Dennis Shepherd's Address to the Court at the Sentencing of Aaron McKinney**

My son, Matthew officially died October 12th, 1998. But he actually died the Wednesday before when you... You, Mr. McKinney, with your friend, Mr. Henderson... Left him out there to die by himself. But he wasn't alone. He had his longtime friends with him. The beautiful night sky, the daylight, and the sun to shine on him one last time. He had the smell of Wyoming sage brush and the scent of pine trees from the snowy range. And he had God. I feel better knowing he wasn't alone. Our lives will never be the same. We miss Matt terribly; we think about him all the time, at odd moments when little things remind us of him. When we walk by the refrigerator and see pictures of him. And at special times of the year, like the first day of classes at UW or the opening day of hunting season. We always wonder, what would have happened? What would he have become? How would he have changed his corner of the world to make it better? Matthew was not my gay son. He was my son, who happened to be gay. And I was proud of him. He became a symbol, some say. A martyr, putting the boy-next-door face on hate crimes, that's fine with me. He would be thrilled to know his death helped others. Mr. McKinney, Judy and I believe that there are incidents and crimes that justify the death penalty, and even Matthew would agree that this is one of them. My son died because of your ignorance and intolerance. I can't bring him back, but I can do my best to make sure this never happens again. I believe in the death penalty. I want nothing more than to see you die. However, this is a time for healing. This is a time to show mercy to one who refused to show mercy. Every time you celebrate Christmas, or the Fourth of July, remember: Matt isn't. Every time you wake up, remember, Matthew won't. Every time you breathe, remember Matthew doesn't. You robbed us of something very precious. And I will never forgive you for that. Mr. McKinney. I give you life, in memory of one who no longer lives. May it be a long life. And may you thank Matthew every day for it.

_**End Note:**_ For more information, private-message me or google "Matthew Shepherd." Obviously, Adam's speech resembles Dennis Shepherd's, which is why I included it. Additionally, on the day of Matthew's funeral, protesters (led by Fred Phelps) showed up to show their hatred of Matthew and how they believed his killers were just. In counter protest, Romaine Patterson, Matthew's best friend, organized the "Angel Action" in which everyone dressed in white with large wings that towered above them to hide the hateful words behind them.


End file.
